totalApathy

And okay, maybe—maybe—you’d thought about quitting. Maybe you’d had a few late-night fantasies about giving it all up and becoming a full-time gold digger. The classy kind, obviously. The kind who drank rosé on yachts and wore silk robes while pretending to care about crypto. It wasn’t the worst idea. You did live in Monaco, after all. Land of superyachts, supermodels, and super-rich men who thought “journalist” is just a cute way of saying “between jobs.” Honestly, if you were going to fail at something, at least you’d picked a scenic place to do it.

“I just need to write something life-changing. Then everything will be fine.” You leaned against the heater with all the drama of a woman on the brink, your back pressed to the window like you were starring in a very slow, very tragic film. You weren’t sure if you were trying to convince your coworkers or yourself. Probably both.

“Right,” Carol said, not even glancing up from her laptop. “And do you actually know what that is, or are we just manifesting now?”

“Well… no,” you admitted, with the kind of shrug that said please don’t ask follow-up questions. At least you were being honest. Sort of.

Across the room, Hanna looked up from her coffee. She was probably the smartest person in the office, which was both comforting and deeply annoying. She studied you for a second, her expression unreadable—somewhere between pity and amusement, with just a dash of judgment for flavor.

“I watched a movie the other night,” she said, her voice slow and deliberate, like she was trying to decide if this was worth sharing. “And it actually had a plot that might work. For an article, I mean.”

Your ears perked up the second Hanna spoke. “Wait… what is it?” you asked, straightening up like a detective who’d just caught the scent of a lead. You didn’t mean to sound so desperate, but honestly, you were one more rejection email away from pitching a story about the emotional lives of houseplants.

“How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days,” Hanna said, her voice lilting with that particular brand of smugness that only came from knowing she was about to drop something good.

Carol perked up immediately. “Oh my god, I love that movie!”

You blinked. Once. Twice. A third time for good measure. Was this a cultural reference you were supposed to know? Judging by the way both of them were looking at you—with matching expressions of mild horror and secondhand embarrassment—you had, in fact, missed something. Something big.

You tried to play it cool, nodding like you were totally on board. “Right. That one. Classic.” You had no idea what you were agreeing to.

Hanna didn’t buy it. She leaned forward, eyes glinting with something that looked suspiciously like mischief. “So, the girl has to find a guy,” she said slowly, drawing it out like she was telling a ghost story. “And then she has to do everything—everything—in her power to make him dump her. In ten days.”

You stared at her. “That’s… the plot?”

“That’s the plot,” she confirmed, clearly delighted by your confusion. “And it’s perfect.”

You weren’t sure what she meant by perfect, but your brain was already racing. Ten days. A doomed relationship. A built-in deadline. It was ridiculous. It was chaotic. It was… kind of brilliant.

And also, probably, a terrible idea.

But then again, what did you have to lose?

“So… you’re telling me I have to find some poor soul and make him dump me in ten days?” you asked, the words sounding ridiculous even as they left your mouth. It felt like the kind of thing you’d say as a joke at brunch, not something you’d actually consider doing. And yet—your brain was already buzzing, flipping through mental flashcards of eligible men and increasingly unhinged ways to drive them away.

“Exactly!” Hanna said, her eyes lighting up like she’d just invented the concept of journalism itself. “But make it Monaco. Find a billionaire, an athlete, someone with a yacht and a god complex. Go wild.”

Carol nodded solemnly, like she was blessing a sacred quest. “Yeah, like… traumatize someone rich. For journalism. Totally fair. Do you know the insane stuff these people do for money? You’d be doing the world a favor.”

You tried to keep a straight face, but a laugh slipped out anyway. The idea was unhinged. Unethical, probably. Definitely unprofessional. But also? It had legs. It had chaos. It had the kind of messy, clickbait-y energy that editors loved and readers devoured. And more than that—it sounded fun. Stupid, reckless fun. The kind you hadn’t had in ages.

You could already picture it: the awkward dates, the fake meltdowns, the slow unraveling of some poor, unsuspecting man’s patience. It was terrible. It was brilliant. It was exactly the kind of disaster you needed.

And if it just so happened to be the thing that saved your career? Even better.

“But who exactly is supposed to be my victim? Do we have any tributes?” you asked, glancing between the girls like you were about to host a very glamorous, very morally questionable Hunger Games. Honestly, in Monaco, the options were endless. The city was practically crawling with eligible men who had more money than sense and a deeply concerning relationship with their own reflections.

“Jannik Sinner!” Carol said immediately, like she’d been waiting her whole life to shout his name. “What does he play? Tennis? Whatever. He’s hot.”

You wrinkled your nose. Jannik was objectively attractive, sure, but he gave off the kind of energy that screamed protein shakes and motivational podcasts. Probably the type to say things like “rise and grind” without irony. Not your vibe.

Hanna tapped her pen against her notebook, eyes narrowed in thought. “What about the orange guy who drives fast cars? Piastri. Oscar. He’s cute.”

You tilted your head, considering it for half a second before shaking it. Also not your type. Too polite. Too clean-cut. He looked like the kind of guy who’d apologize for sneezing too loud. You needed someone cockier. Someone who could handle a little chaos. Someone who wouldn’t immediately crumble the second you fake-cried in a restaurant or brought up your imaginary Pinterest wedding board.

No, you needed someone who could take a hit. Someone who thought he was untouchable.

“I need to think it through,” you said, pausing just long enough to make it sound like a life-or-death decision. “But don’t worry—I’ll let you know the moment I choose my victim.”

You said it with a grin, but your mind was already racing. Monaco was full of possibilities—sleek suits, smug smiles, men who’d never been told no in their lives. It was practically a buffet of bad decisions. All you had to do was pick one and ruin his ten days of life. For journalism, of course.

Totally ethical. Totally fine.

Probably.

────────────

What happened when you mixed alcohol with four Formula 1 drivers—especially Lando Norris?

Bad decisions. The kind that started with expensive cocktails and ended with someone losing a shoe, a phone, or their dignity. Sometimes all three.

They were tucked into a velvet booth in the corner of the lounge, half-hidden by low lighting and the thump of bass-heavy music. Their table was cluttered with half-empty glasses and a bottle of something that probably cost more than most people’s rent. Oscar, Max, and Charles were deep in conversation, laughing about something that involved a yacht, a seagull, and a very unfortunate misunderstanding in Ibiza.

Lando, though, wasn’t listening. He was staring across the room, eyes fixed on the dance floor like he was watching a live documentary on human chaos. A group of girls had climbed onto the tables, dancing like they were auditioning for a music video—heels off, hair wild, dresses clinging to skin that shimmered with sweat and glitter. It was a lot. Like, a lot.

He blinked slowly, lips parted in mild horror. The kind of look you’d give if you walked into your hotel room and found a raccoon going through your minibar. He wasn’t judging, exactly. More… confused. Concerned. Maybe a little afraid.

“What are you staring at, man?” Oscar asked, leaning over to follow his gaze.

Lando pointed, eyes still wide. “Those girls. Do you see them? They have no dignity.”

Max snorted so hard he nearly spilled his drink. “You’re talking about dignity? You, Lando?”

Lando turned to him, offended. “Hey! I have dignity. Do I look like I’m up there shaking my almost bare ass to the music? No. Exactly.”

Charles raised an eyebrow, clearly enjoying himself. “Should I remind you what you did after your Monaco win?”

Lando opened his mouth, then closed it again. He could already feel the memory creeping in—champagne-soaked, shirtless, standing on a table with a traffic cone on his head, yelling something about being the king of the world. Okay, maybe not his finest moment.

“That was different,” he muttered, taking a long sip of his drink. “That was… celebratory.”

Max grinned. “Sure, mate. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Lando rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched. He hated how well they knew him. Hated it even more that they were right.

“That’s not even the point,” Lando said, letting out a dramatic sigh as he slumped back in his seat. “My point is—it’s actually so hard to find a girlfriend who isn’t a gold digger.”

He knew how it sounded. Rich, famous, young. Boo-hoo, right? But still. It was a real problem. Everyone around him seemed to have someone. Real relationships. People to text goodnight. People to come home to. And then there was him—third-wheeling his way through life, pretending he didn’t care.

“Right, because you’re the only one who’s single here,” Max said, grinning like he’d just caught Lando in a lie. “Even Oscar has a girlfriend.”

“Sorry?” Oscar blinked, confused. “We’ve been together since high school, Max.”

Max rolled his eyes, like that somehow made it worse. “Exactly my point. You’re the last one standing. We need to find someone for you.”

He clapped Lando on the back like he was doing him a favor, but Lando just groaned and took another sip of his drink. The idea of someone “finding” him a girlfriend felt like ordering love off a menu. And yet… maybe Max wasn’t wrong. Maybe it was time to try something new.

“Let’s make it more interesting,” Charles said, leaning back in his chair with a grin that made Lando’s stomach twist. “A bet.”

Oh no. Absolutely not. This was how chaos started. This was how group chats exploded and friendships got temporarily ruined. Lando had seen this look before—Charles was about to say something reckless, and once he did, there’d be no going back.

“A bet?” Lando repeated slowly, already feeling his shoulders tense. “Why does that sound like you’re about to say something ridiculous?”

“Because he is,” Oscar muttered, sipping his drink like he’d already accepted the disaster as inevitable.

Max perked up instantly, eyes wide and excited, like someone had just said the magic word. “Ooooh, I love bets! What are we betting on? Lando’s dignity? Because that’s already gone.”

Lando shot him a look, deadpan. “Very funny,” he said, voice flat and dripping with sarcasm. But deep down, he knew Max wasn’t entirely wrong. His dignity had taken a few hits lately. Mostly self-inflicted.

Charles ignored them all, clearly enjoying himself. He leaned forward, hands spread like he was presenting a TED Talk. “Lando, you need a girlfriend. We all know it. So…” He paused for dramatic effect. “You have ten days to pull a girl.”

Lando blinked. “Uh… okay. And the catch?”

Charles smiled like he’d just invented the concept of suffering. “No money. No fame. No cars. No F1 clout. Just… pure personality.”

Lando choked on his drink.

Pure personality? That was basically all the stuff he didn’t use. His whole charm package was built on fast cars, expensive watches, and being Lando Norris. Strip that away and what was left? A guy who made bad jokes, forgot birthdays, and still didn’t know how to fold a fitted sheet. He wasn’t even sure he had a personality outside of racing and nonchalant Instagram captions.

He looked around the table, hoping someone would jump in and shut this down. But Max was already nodding like this was the best idea he’d ever heard. Oscar looked mildly entertained. And Charles? Charles was practically glowing with evil joy.

Lando sighed, sinking deeper into his seat. This was going to be a disaster.

But part of him—some reckless, competitive part—kind of wanted to try.

Lando narrowed his eyes, already suspicious. “Okay… but what do I get out of this?”

He didn’t trust that look on Charles’s face. It was the same look he’d had before convincing Max to race a golf cart through a hotel lobby. The same look that had ended with a very awkward call from PR. Lando wasn’t about to walk into something stupid without at least knowing what was on the table.

Charles smirked, clearly enjoying the moment. “Oh, something big. Something worth your time.”

Oscar leaned in, lowering his voice like they were planning a heist. “A brand-new car. Your choice. Top model. Think of it as… motivation.”

Lando blinked. Then blinked again. A car? A new car? His brain immediately started spinning through possibilities—sleek lines, custom interiors, that new car smell. He already had a garage full of toys, sure, but this would be different. This would be earned. Won. A trophy with wheels.

He leaned back in his seat, trying to look casual, but his eyes were already gleaming. “Okay… now you’ve got my attention.”

Charles raised a brow, clearly not done. “Don’t get too cocky. You still have to actually… do it.”

Lando grinned, the kind of grin that usually got him into trouble. “Oh, don’t worry. I will. And when I do, that car is mine.”

“And who’s supposed to be the lucky girl?” Lando asked, scanning the club with a mix of curiosity and dread.

There were plenty of options—if you counted sequins, fake tans, and women who could smell wealth from across the room. The place was packed with designer heels and glossy lips, all circling like sharks in glitter. It was loud, chaotic, and exactly the kind of scene Lando usually tried to avoid unless he was already tipsy or being dragged in by Max.

Charles pointed toward the dance floor, where a blonde was holding court in the middle of a glittery circle. She moved like she knew everyone was watching, hips swaying, hair flipping, smile sharp enough to cut glass. “The blonde over there? I think her name is Magui or something like that.”

Lando squinted, trying to place her. She looked familiar in that Monaco way—like someone who’d probably dated three footballers, a tennis player, and maybe a prince. “Mate, she looks like she’s already dated half the athletes in here… and would probably make me sign a nondisclosure agreement before the first drink.”

He shook his head, already bored. “Pass.”

He wanted someone different. Someone who didn’t treat flirting like a business transaction. Someone who didn’t already know his net worth before he said hello.

“And what about her?” Oscar asked, nodding toward the bar.

Lando turned his head, following Oscar’s gaze—and then he saw you.

You were perched on a barstool, one leg crossed over the other, deep in conversation with a friend. There was something about the way you sat—relaxed, like you belonged there but didn’t need anyone to notice. You weren’t dressed like the usual Monaco crowd. No glittering diamonds, no designer logos screaming for attention. Just a simple outfit, effortless and cool, like you’d thrown it on without a second thought. And your expression? Calm. Unbothered. Like the chaos of the club didn’t touch you. Like you were in your own little world and perfectly happy to stay there.

Lando tilted his head, studying you. You didn’t look like someone who cared about fast cars or famous faces. You weren’t glancing around the room, hoping to be seen. You weren’t trying too hard. You weren’t trying at all.

And that? That was rare.

His lips curled into a slow, intrigued smile. Something about you felt like a challenge. Not the kind he could win with a wink and a flashy watch. The kind that might actually take effort. Honesty. Personality. Whatever that meant.

“Perfect,” he said, more to himself than anyone else.

And just like that, the game was on.

────────────

With a few hours to kill before work, you figured you might as well be productive. Or at least pretend to be. So you parked yourself in a quiet café, ordered something overpriced and frothy, and settled in by the window with your laptop open and your eyes doing anything but working. You told yourself you were brainstorming. Researching. Casually scouting for your potential victim. You had ten days, after all. No time to waste.

Unfortunately, the selection was… bleak.

Too old. Too young. Too married. Too into themselves. One guy looked promising until he took a phone call and started yelling at someone named “Mum” about crypto. Another had a man bun and a tattoo of a lion on his neck, which felt like a red flag wrapped in a cliché. And then—Charles Leclerc. Sitting two tables away, laughing with someone you assumed was his girlfriend. Taken. Obviously. And thank God, honestly. The last thing you needed was a swarm of Ferrari fans in your DMs accusing you of ruining his focus.

You were just about ready to give up. Your coffee had gone cold, your cursor blinked mockingly on a blank document, and your brain was spiraling into that familiar pit of “what am I even doing with my life?” You stirred your drink like it might reveal the answers at the bottom, already preparing to pack up and call it a failed mission.

And then—someone stepped into your peripheral vision.

You didn’t look up right away. You were too busy wallowing. But then a voice cut through the low hum of conversation, casual and familiar in a way that made your stomach flip.

“Hey.”

You looked up.

And nearly died on the spot.

Lando Norris.

Standing right there, like the universe had just dropped him into your lap with a wink and a challenge. He looked annoyingly good—messy curls, easy smile, hands shoved into the pockets of a hoodie that probably cost more than your rent. He didn’t look like a celebrity right now. He looked like a guy who’d wandered in off the street, maybe to grab a coffee or flirt with the barista. But you knew better.

Your heart did something weird in your chest. Not because you were starstruck—please, you were a professional. Mostly. But because this was it. The moment. The setup.

Great. Fantastic. Wonderful.

The universe had officially outdone itself.

Because standing in front of you was a man who was, quite frankly, perfect for the job. He checked every single box on your very short, very specific list:

1. Famous.

2. Attractive.

3. Almost definitely dumb enough to fall for whatever psychological warfare your article required.

Your brain lit up like fireworks on New Year’s Eve. Oh. Oh. This was it. This was him. Your ten-day victim had just walked straight into your life, no effort required. You didn’t even have to chase him down—he came to you. Like a lamb to the slaughter. Or, more accurately, like a golden retriever to a squeaky toy.

“Hi,” you said sweetly, already spinning the first few lines of your article in your head. The headline was practically writing itself.

Of course, you had to play it cool. You had to pretend you had absolutely no idea who he was. Not the guy you’d written five separate articles about. Not the guy with a garage full of sixteen cars you could list from memory. Not the guy whose face had been on your Twitter feed more times than your own.

No. You were going full amnesia. Blank slate. Just a girl, sitting in a café, definitely not plotting emotional sabotage.

“I saw you yesterday in the club. What a coincidence,” he said, voice a little too high, a little too nervous for someone who regularly drove a rocket ship at 300 kilometers an hour.

You raised a single eyebrow. He saw you?

Interesting.

He seemed to realize how that sounded because he immediately panicked. “I mean—uh—may I sit with you?”

And just like that, your suspicions were confirmed.

Oh yeah. He was the one.

So it had begun.

Your challenge: make Lando Norris dump you in ten days.

You watched him settle into the chair across from you, all casual charm and nervous energy. It was almost too easy. He looked relaxed, but you could see the flicker of uncertainty in his eyes—the way he scanned your face like he was trying to figure out if you were safe, or secretly filming him for TikTok.

“What’s your name, cutie?” you asked, voice syrupy sweet. The word cutie tasted weird coming out of your mouth, but you leaned into it anyway. You cringed internally—asking for his name when you knew every single gossip headline about him felt borderline criminal. You’d written about his dating history. His car collection. His skincare routine. You could probably recite his net worth in three currencies.

Still… you were curious. Would he lie? Would he play it cool, pretend to be someone else? Or would he go full Lando Norris, Monaco’s golden playboy, the city’s most sought-after souvenir?

“Lando,” he said.

Wow.

So he was actually telling the truth. No fake name. No mysterious alter ego. Just Lando. Bold move. And maybe also a little dumb. Perfect.

“That’s nice, Larry.”

He blinked. “It’s… Lando.”

You smiled innocently. “That’s what I said.”

He paused, eyebrows pulling together just slightly. Confused. Not alarmed, not offended—just trying to figure out if you were messing with him or genuinely bad with names. A regular Monaco man would’ve already made an excuse and bolted. But he stayed. That was promising.

“And what’s your name?” he asked, still trying to play it cool.

“I’m Y/n,” you said, offering him a soft smile that you hoped read as warm and just a little curious. At the same time, your eyes flicked toward the rest of the café, scanning the space like you were expecting someone to jump out from behind the espresso machine with a hidden camera. Was this a setup? Was he scouting the place? Spying? The whole thing felt too easy, too convenient. You’d barely started your mission and already the universe had dropped Monaco’s most eligible bachelor into your lap.

“So… you saw me at the club, huh?” you asked, keeping your tone light, like it was just a passing comment. Of course you knew he had. You’d been there with Hanna, sipping overpriced cocktails and pretending not to notice the swarm of athletes and influencers orbiting the VIP section. You’d clocked him immediately—messy curls, easy smile, the kind of presence that made people turn their heads without even knowing why. But you’d played it cool. You always did.

“Um… yeah,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. His voice was softer now, a little unsure. “I was with my friends, and you… caught my attention. But you were with a friend, and I didn’t want to interrupt.”

You tilted your head slightly, pretending to think. Caught his attention? That was… unexpected. You tried to guess which friend he’d been with—Oscar? Max? Carlos? Probably one of the three.

But what really surprised you was how polite he was. No cheesy pickup line. No smug grin. Just a little awkward, a little nervous, and honestly? Kind of sweet. You’d heard the rumors—Lando Norris, playboy of the paddock, heartbreaker with a grin. But this version? This slightly fidgety, maybe-too-honest guy sitting across from you?

You could work with this.

You could definitely work with this.

As much as you wanted to keep the conversation going—keep watching him fidget with his sleeves and stumble over his words like a boy who wasn’t used to being nervous—time was not on your side. Hanna and Carol would absolutely murder you if you were late to work again. And honestly, you were already pushing it.

“Anyway, I should get going. Y’know… work,” you said, slipping your laptop into your bag and trying to sound like a normal person with a normal job and not someone actively plotting emotional sabotage for a living.

But then—

“Wanna go out for dinner or lunch sometime?” Lando asked, voice hopeful, like he wasn’t sure if he was reading the moment right.

You froze.

Oh.

This was suspiciously easy. Like, too easy. You hadn’t even done anything yet. No fake tears, no chaotic energy, no weird stories about your ex-boyfriend’s ghost haunting your apartment. And here he was, asking you out like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I’d love that,” you said, keeping your tone light, breezy. Inside, your brain was doing backflips. You could already hear Hanna and Carol screaming when you told them.

“Perfect,” he said, smiling now, more confident. “So… tomorrow, 6 p.m.? Here?”

You blinked. Here? Same café? That was bold. And kind of adorable. He was either really into you or really bad at dating. Maybe both.

“Deal,” you said, trying to sound casual, like this wasn’t the exact outcome you’d been hoping for. Like you weren’t already planning your outfit and your first sabotage move.

You slung your bag over your shoulder, gave him one last smile, and walked out the door with your heart racing and your mission officially in motion.

You burst into the office like a storm, practically tripping over your own feet as you threw your bag onto your chair without even bothering to sit. Your heart was still racing, your thoughts spinning, and you couldn’t hold it in for one more second.

“You are not going to believe what just happened to me!” you shouted, loud enough that someone in the hallway probably heard.

Hanna and Carol looked up from their desks, already exchanging that familiar look—the one that said here we go again. Hanna raised an eyebrow, and Carol tilted her head, both waiting for whatever chaos you were about to unload.

“Hm?” Hanna asked, calm but curious.

You started pacing, arms flailing a little as you tried to find the words. “Okay, so I was sitting in the café, right? Just doing my usual thing—pretending to work, sipping coffee, maybe scouting for the guy—and then boom. Out of nowhere. The universe just drops Lando. Fucking. Norris. right into my lap.”

Hanna gasped like she’d just been slapped. “You’re kidding!”

Carol’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. She blinked, stunned, like her brain was still buffering.

You nodded, grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. “I swear. He walked right up to me. Sat down. Started talking. And the best part?” You paused for dramatic effect, letting the tension build. “I literally did nothing. I didn’t flirt. I didn’t even try. I was just sitting there, spiraling about my life, and he came to me.”

Carol finally found her voice. “Wait—what does that even mean?”

You dropped into your chair, still buzzing. “It means he invited me to dinner. Tomorrow. Six p.m. Same café.”

Hanna let out a shriek that echoed off the walls. Carol covered her mouth like she’d just witnessed a miracle. You leaned back, heart pounding, mind already racing through outfits and sabotage strategies.

This was it. The mission had officially begun.

────────────

DAY ONE

Dinner was at six.

You arrived at 6:07—just late enough to be annoying, but not late enough to be unforgivable. It was a calculated move. A soft push. You wanted him just a little off balance, just enough to wonder if you were the kind of person who always ran late or if you were testing him. Either way, it worked.

Lando was already there, sitting at the table with his fingers wrapped around a glass he hadn’t touched. He was spinning it slowly, staring at the condensation like it held answers. He looked nervous. Not panicked, but definitely unsure. Like a kid trying to act normal in front of the cool teacher. You loved that. You loved a man already on edge.

“Sorry I’m late,” you said brightly, sliding into your seat like you hadn’t just made a dramatic entrance. “My cat threw up on my shoes.”

You didn’t have a cat. You didn’t even like cats. But if tonight was about sabotage, you were going to start strong. Lies, confusion, chaos—your holy trinity.

Lando blinked, clearly trying to process. “Oh—uh, I hope they’re okay?”

You tilted your head, pretending to think. “Shoes or cat?”

“…Both?” he guessed, voice soft.

Cute. He was trying. You could see it in the way he sat up straighter, the way he kept glancing at you like he was checking to see if you were real. He wasn’t smooth, not yet. But he was polite. Sweet, even. And that made it better. You didn’t want a player. You wanted someone who’d fall hard and fast and then wonder what the hell happened.

The waiter came, and you ordered something expensive—something with ingredients you couldn’t pronounce and a price tag that made Lando’s eyebrows twitch. You watched him carefully, waiting for the reaction. He didn’t say anything, just nodded and ordered something simple. Interesting. He wasn’t going to challenge you. Not yet.

And then came your moment.

The first crack. The first twist.

You leaned forward, smile soft, voice sweet. Time to plant the seed.

Then came the inevitable question. The one that always showed up early, no matter how much small talk you tried to stretch out.

“So… what do you do? For work?”

You watched him closely as he answered. His eyes flickered, just for a second, like he was searching for the right words—or maybe the safest lie.

“I’m a… mechanic,” he said.

You blinked. Mechanic? Really?

You raised an eyebrow, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make him squirm. “A… mechanic? Here in Monaco?”

He nodded, stiffly. “Yeah… cars. Fixing cars.”

He looked like you’d just asked him to perform open-heart surgery with a spoon. His shoulders were tense, his voice too careful. Like he was trying to sell a story he hadn’t rehearsed enough.

You leaned back in your chair, pretending to think it over. Mechanic. In Monaco. Sure. Because that made perfect sense. You knew what kind of cars he drove—cars that cost more than your entire apartment building. And now he wanted you to believe he spent his days elbow-deep in engine grease?

Something didn’t add up.

But you didn’t call him out. Not yet. You just smiled, nodded slowly, and filed the lie away for later.

Because if he was going to play pretend… well, two could play that game.

“Enough talking about me,” Lando said, waving his hand like he’d just cracked some kind of code. “I want to talk about you.”

Uh-oh.

You smiled, but inside, you groaned. Of course he wasn’t that interesting. You’d already figured that out. He was charming, sure, and a little nervous, which was cute—but the moment he called himself a mechanic, you knew you were dealing with someone who wasn’t exactly built for deep conversation. Still, you had to play nice. You were supposed to be sweet. Mysterious. Just weird enough to keep him guessing.

So you rolled your eyes—internally, of course, because externally you had to look polite and engaged—and braced yourself for whatever awkward questions were coming next. This was the part where he’d ask something basic, like where you were from or what you did for work, and you’d have to lie through your teeth without blinking.

“So… what do you do?” Lando asked, leaning forward a little, his elbows resting on the table, eyes wide with what looked like actual curiosity.

You blinked, caught off guard. He sounded so sincere. Like he really wanted to know. Like he wasn’t just asking to be polite or to fill the silence. You hadn’t expected that. You thought he’d be more self-absorbed, more interested in talking about himself, or at least flexing a little. But no—he was looking at you like you were the most interesting thing in the room.

You gave a small shrug, pretending to think hard. “Uh… I, um… I specialize in… finding lost socks.”

His eyebrows lifted, just a little. “Lost… socks?”

You nodded, keeping your face serious. “Yeah. People’s socks. It’s very niche. Very demanding. You’d be surprised how emotional people get about it. Some socks never come back. It’s tragic, really.”

You watched him closely, waiting for the confusion to settle in. Waiting for the polite smile to crack, for the awkward silence to stretch too long. This was supposed to be weird. Off-putting. You were trying to throw him off, to make him question your sanity just enough to regret asking.

But instead, Lando’s lips twitched. Then curled into a smile. “That’s… actually kind of cute.”

You blinked.

Cute?

You were trying to annoy him, for crying out loud. You were trying to be strange and mildly concerning. And somehow, he’d taken your fake sock-finding career and turned it into something adorable. Like you were a quirky rom-com lead instead of a woman actively plotting her own romantic downfall.

This was going to be harder than you thought.

“So… do you have any hobbies? Or… weird talents?” you asked, leaning forward just a little, pretending to be genuinely curious. You tilted your head, smiled softly, and gave him space to answer. It was a test, really. You wanted to see what kind of lie he’d come up with next.

Lando hesitated. You could see the gears turning in his head, trying to land on something believable but still interesting. Finally, he shrugged. “Uh… I’m really into, um… pottery.”

You blinked.

Pottery.

Sure. That made total sense for someone whose actual life involved screaming engines, million-dollar cars, and a fanbase that could probably crash your Wi-Fi. You stared at him for a second, trying to picture it—Lando Norris in an apron, gently shaping clay with his hands, surrounded by half-finished mugs and lopsided bowls. It was… oddly charming. And also completely ridiculous.

“Pottery, huh?” you said, smiling like you weren’t internally laughing. “You know… you kind of remind me of someone.”

He tilted his head, clearly bracing for whatever you were about to say. His shoulders tensed just slightly, like he was preparing for impact. “Oh? Who?”

You grinned, letting the moment stretch. “I don’t know… someone fast, maybe… drives cars professionally? Something like that?”

His eyebrows shot up, panic flickering across his face. “Fast… drives cars? No, no, I… I just ride bicycles sometimes. Very competitive bicyclist.”

You had to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. He was trying so hard. You could see it in the way he sat up straighter, the way his voice got higher, like he was clinging to the lie with both hands. It was almost sweet. Almost.

But mostly? It was hilarious.

You were just about to go in for the kill. Just one little question. One tiny, innocent syllable that would’ve cracked the whole thing wide open.

“Are you, by any chance, L—”

But before you could finish, he jumped in, fast and a little too loud.

“Are you into F1, perhaps?”

You blinked.

Excuse you?

Where had that come from?

Your brain scrambled to catch up. Why would he ask that? Was this some kind of reverse psychology? Was he trying to throw you off? Or maybe he was testing you—trying to see if you’d slip up, if you already knew who he was. Did he think you were stupid? Or worse, a fan pretending not to be?

Your lips curled into a slow, suspicious smile. Two could play this game.

“F1?” you repeated, like you were trying to remember what that even stood for. “Ooh, fancy sport,” you said, waving your hand in the air like you were shooing away a mosquito. “Those guys go like—” you leaned in and made the most ridiculous zooming noise you could muster, “vroooom.”

He snorted. Actually snorted. The sound was half laugh, half surprise, and it made your stomach do something it absolutely should not have done.

“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “Something like that.”

You shrugged, keeping your expression casual. “I don’t really follow it,” you lied, smooth as silk. “Not my thing. Too many rules, too much noise, too many men who think they’re hot shit just because they can turn left at high speed.”

He laughed again, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. And maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he was wondering if you were serious or just messing with him. You hoped it was both. You wanted him confused. Off balance. Unsure of where he stood.

Because if he was going to lie, then so were you.

And you were better at it.

“Should I be interested in it?” you asked, tilting your head just slightly, letting your voice go soft and curious. You were playing innocent now, like you hadn’t just spent the last five minutes trashing the very thing that made him famous. You’d called it loud, ridiculous, full of egos—and somehow, he was still sitting across from you. Still smiling. Still trying.

Miracle.

Lando Norris was famously allergic to commitment. That much you knew. Commitment, honesty, basic emotional presence—pick one. He wasn’t known for sticking around. And yet… here he was. Not bolting. Not making excuses. Just sitting there, sipping his drink, looking at you like you were the most fascinating person in the room.

“Pff, no,” he said, waving his hand like F1 was a mosquito buzzing near his ear. “It’s a shit sport. Is it even a sport? I mean—everyone can drive a car.”

You stared at him.

He said that with his whole chest. No hesitation. No irony. Just pure, unfiltered disgust. And he was supposed to be one of the faces of the sport. You had to fight the urge to laugh. It was too good. Too ridiculous. You couldn’t have scripted it better.

“So you hate F1?” you asked, keeping your expression soft and sweet, like you were genuinely concerned. Inside, you were cackling.

“Hate,” he repeated, voice flat, eyes serious.

You let out a dramatic sigh of relief. “Good. Because I’ve never watched a single race.”

Lie. Massive lie. You’d watched every race. You’d written about half of them. You could probably quote his post-race interviews word for word. But tonight? You were just a girl who thought F1 was a bunch of guys turning left really fast.

And somehow… he was still into it.

You leaned back in your chair, squinting at him like you were trying to solve a puzzle. There was something about him—something in the way he smiled, all relaxed and smug, elbows resting on the table like he had nothing to hide. He looked far too confident for someone who should probably be sweating under the weight of his own lies.

“But still…” you said slowly, letting the words stretch, “you’re so familiar to me.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “From your dreams, probably.”

Smooth. Annoyingly smooth.

You smirked back, refusing to let him win the moment. You were supposed to be the one in control here. The one pulling strings. But he was playing along a little too well.

“No—joke,” he said, leaning in slightly. “I mean, a lot of people mistake me for some Landon who cheated on Wizard Liz.”

You blinked.

Wait. What?

No way. No way he actually knew about that bizarre internet mess. That was deep TikTok drama. The kind of thing you only knew if you spent way too much time online, scrolling through chaotic storytimes and conspiracy threads at 2 a.m. And yet… he said it so casually. Like it was common knowledge. Like he’d been following the whole thing, too.

“Yeah… I think that’s it,” you said, nodding thoughtfully, pretending it all made perfect sense. “You’ve got that same energy. Real Landon vibes.”

He laughed, and you took another sip of your drink, hiding your grin behind the glass. You weren’t sure if he was messing with you or just weirdly well-informed. Either way, it was working. You were supposed to be throwing him off—but somehow, he kept surprising you.

And you kind of loved it.

You let out a dramatic sigh, swirling your glass just a little too hard, watching the liquid slosh dangerously close to the rim. And then—oops. In the most “accidental” way possible, you tipped it forward, sending a neat splash of red wine straight onto Lando’s crisp white shirt. It was a perfect hit. Right across the chest. A slow, blooming stain that spread like a watercolor painting. You gasped, loud and theatrical, already grabbing your napkin and flinging it at him like it might somehow undo the damage.

“Oh no! I’m so sorry!” you cried, pushing back your chair with a screech and jumping to your feet. You clutched your hands to your face, eyes wide, voice cracking like you were on the verge of tears. “I ruined your shirt! I can’t believe me!”

You didn’t wait for a response. You turned and bolted toward the door, fake sniffles bubbling up in your throat, your heart pounding—not from guilt, but from the thrill of it. This was it. The first real move. The first real test. You imagined the chaos of the next ten days unfolding like a movie montage—awkward moments, weird lies, emotional sabotage. You were already halfway to the exit, ready to disappear in a cloud of fake shame, when—

You felt a hand close gently around your arm.

“Hey, hey—stop,” Lando said, his voice low and calm, not even a little annoyed. He pulled you back, not hard, just enough to make you pause. “It’s okay. Really. Don’t cry.”

You turned, blinking up at him, caught off guard. He wasn’t mad. He wasn’t flustered. He wasn’t even looking at the wine stain. He was looking at you, like he actually cared. Like he believed you were upset and wanted to make it better.

Your heart did something stupid in your chest.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to get annoyed. Embarrassed. Maybe even storm out. But instead, he was being… kind. Gentle. The exact opposite of what you’d planned for.

Just as you were about to protest—maybe tease him a little more, maybe push the conversation into slightly weirder territory—he tilted his head, eyes sparkling with something that looked dangerously close to hope.

“Hey… so, random and funny thing,” Lando said, running a hand through his hair like he was trying to play it cool. “I, uh… accidentally bought two tickets to the Monaco vs PSG match. Would you… maybe want to come with me?”

You blinked.

Accidentally bought two? Sure. Totally believable. Because people just accidentally buy extra tickets to one of the biggest football matches in the country. You stared at him for a second, trying to decide if he was bluffing or just bad at lying. Either way, it didn’t matter. The offer was real. The moment was real. And it was falling into your lap like the universe had skipped ahead in your ten-day plan and decided to speed-run the romance part.

Part of you wanted to scream. This was too easy. You hadn’t even pulled out the weird stories or the fake emotional breakdowns yet. And already he was inviting you to a second date. A public one. With crowds and noise and cameras. You could practically hear Hanna and Carol losing their minds.

But the other part of you—the part that knew how to play this game—kept your face calm, your voice breezy.

“Uh… sure,” you said, shrugging like it was no big deal. “I guess I could… watch a football match. Why not?”

He lit up. Like you’d just handed him the moon. His grin was wide and boyish and way too sincere for someone who was supposed to be emotionally unavailable.

“Perfect! Tomorrow, then,” he said. “You’ll love it. It’s… actually really fun.”

You nodded, sipping your drink slowly, pretending to think about it like you hadn’t already started planning your outfit and your next sabotage move.

────────────

DAY TWO

The truth was… Lando had actually bought five tickets. Not two. Five. One for you, one for himself, and three for the chaos committee—Max, Oscar, and Charles. The plan was simple: they’d sit a few rows back, close enough to watch the match, but mostly there to keep an eye on things. On you. On him. On whatever this was turning into.

Now the four of them were outside the Stade Louis II, leaning against a low wall, the sun dipping low behind the stands. The air buzzed with the usual pre-match energy—fans shouting, vendors yelling, the smell of beer and hot dogs drifting through the air. But Lando barely noticed any of it. His head was still spinning from the night before.

“So…” Charles started, his voice full of mischief, “how was the date?”

Lando groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Somewhere between horrible and amazing.”

It was the only way he could describe it. The whole thing had been a mess—an actual mess. The lies he’d thrown out? Completely unplanned. He’d panicked. Said the first thing that came to mind. Mechanic. Pottery. Bicycles. He wasn’t even sure what story he’d told by the end of it. It was all a blur of fake jobs and weird jokes and you looking at him like you knew exactly what he was doing and were choosing not to say anything.

“Why’s that?” Max asked, grinning like he already knew the answer.

Lando shook his head, still half in disbelief. “She has no idea who I am,” he said. “Told her I’m… a mechanic.”

Oscar choked on his drink. Charles burst out laughing. Max just stared at him, eyebrows raised, clearly impressed.

Lando sighed, staring out at the stadium. “I don’t even know why I said it. She asked what I did and I just… panicked. It came out before I could stop it.”

And the worst part? You’d believed him. Or at least, you’d pretended to. You’d nodded like it made perfect sense, like you hadn’t already guessed something was off. And then you’d gone and made up your own job—something about finding lost socks—and he still wasn’t sure if you were joking or just completely unhinged.

But you’d said yes to football. You were coming tonight. And that meant something, didn’t it?

Lando leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, a small shake of his head giving away just how much he was still processing. “And also… she told me she’s never watched an F1 race,” he said, almost like he still couldn’t believe it. “So she probably doesn’t know any of you. Honestly, it’s safer than I thought.”

Max let out a loud laugh, tossing a peanut into his mouth like this was the best entertainment he’d had all week. “Oh, please. Everyone knows my name.”

“Yeah,” Charles cut in, raising an eyebrow. “Because of how fucking arrogant you are.”

Max didn’t miss a beat. “And you’re known by everyone thanks to your seven-year-long Ferrari depression,” he shot back, grinning.

Charles scoffed, but didn’t deny it.

Oscar groaned, rubbing his temples like he was the only adult in the room. “Can you two please be quiet? You sound like an old married couple.” He turned to Lando, eyes narrowing with interest. “I want to hear more about her.”

Lando hesitated for a second, then let a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth. “Her name’s Y/n,” he said, voice softer now. “She’s… a bit weird. Like, really weird. But mostly cute.”

He didn’t mean it as an insult. If anything, it was the opposite. There was something about the way you said things—so confidently, so casually—that threw him off in the best way. You didn’t try to impress him. You didn’t ask for anything. You just sat there, sipping your drink, making up stories about lost socks. And somehow, that had been the most fun he’d had in ages.

Max raised an eyebrow. “Weird how?”

Lando just shook his head, still smiling. “You kind of have to see it to get it.”

“You look like you’ve been daydreaming about her,” Max said, nudging Lando with his elbow and grinning like he already knew the answer. “Does Lando Norris have a crush?”

Lando scoffed, too fast, too loud. “Gosh, no,” he said, waving a hand like he was brushing the whole idea away. “It’s not like that.”

It wasn’t. It couldn’t be. It was just the car. The thrill of knowing he could still pull someone without the name, the fame, the noise. Just him. Just a guy with a fake job and a half-baked lie and somehow, she’d still said yes. That was all it was. A little ego boost. A reminder that he didn’t need the spotlight to be interesting. That he could still be wanted without the helmet and the cameras.

“I just want the car,” he added, more firmly this time. Like saying it again would make it true.

Max raised an eyebrow, clearly not buying a word of it. “Uh-huh. Sure, mate. Totally just the car.”

“Lando,” Oscar said slowly, narrowing his eyes like he was piecing together a mystery on a whiteboard, “you like her.”

Lando’s head snapped up. “I don’t,” he said, way too fast. Too sharp. The kind of answer that only made it more obvious.

Oscar raised his eyebrows, clearly not buying it. Charles didn’t even look up from his drink. He just took a slow sip and added, “You do. You get that face.”

Lando frowned. “What face?”

“That face you make when Max starts talking about his sim results,” Oscar said, deadpan.

Max gasped, clutching his chest like he’d been personally attacked. “My sim results are important.”

Charles didn’t even blink. “No one’s arguing that, Max,” he said, still focused on Lando. “The concept of Lando Norris liking girl who doesn’t know who he is…insane.”

Lando opened his mouth to argue, but nothing came out. Because what was he supposed to say? That he didn’t care? That it was all part of some weird game? That he was just having fun?

Except… he wasn’t sure anymore.

You’d gotten under his skin faster than he expected. And now, with the boys looking at him like they’d already figured it out, he felt like the only one still pretending.

Lando opened his mouth, ready to deny it again—ready to insist, for the hundredth time, that he didn’t like you, that this was just a game, just a bit of fun—but then Oscar’s eyes went wide, like he’d just seen a ghost.

“Uh, guys? Incoming.”

Lando turned.

And there you were.

Walking toward the stadium entrance, eyes scanning the crowd, your steps steady but your expression just a little uncertain. And then—like it was the most natural thing in the world—you spotted them. Him. And you started walking straight toward them.

“Shit.”

Lando shot to his feet so fast Max actually blinked. His heart was suddenly racing, his palms weirdly sweaty, and he had no idea why he felt like he was about to be caught doing something illegal.

“Okay—be normal,” he muttered under his breath, eyes darting between his friends. “Stop smiling like that, you look stupid. Oscar, stop waving at her. Max—Max, stop breathing loudly. And for the love of God, don’t mention anything F1.”

“I’m literally just EXISTING,” Max hissed, offended.

Too late. You were already there.

You were walking straight toward them, and your heart was pounding. Not just fluttering—leaping. Like it had launched itself into your throat and was now trying to escape through your mouth. Because there they were. Not just Lando, but Oscar Piastri. Charles Leclerc. And Max motherfucking Verstappen.

Holy. Shit.

He brought them with him?

You tried to keep your face calm, but your brain was screaming. Max was hotter in real life. Stupidly hot. It was actually rude. And Charles? Even prettier than the internet made him out to be. Oscar looked like he’d just stepped out of a Netflix teen drama. And they were all just… there. Standing around like this was normal. Like this wasn’t the most surreal moment of your life.

And Lando—poor, clueless Lando—was standing in the middle of it all, looking like he was trying not to panic. He had no idea. No idea that Carol and Hanna were just a few steps behind you, phones already out, documenting every single detail. Every glance. Every awkward smile. Every second of this ridiculous, perfect disaster.

This was it.

The article was writing itself.

You turned on the sparkle like it was a performance, digging deep into your emotional catalog for the most over-the-top, painfully sweet smile you could manage. It was the kind of smile that belonged in a cheesy soap opera or a reality show reunion—big, bright, and completely fake. You practically skipped the last few steps toward him, arms already outstretched like you were running into the arms of a long-lost lover.

“Babyyy!!” you shrieked, throwing yourself at Lando like you hadn’t seen him in a decade. Like you’d survived a war, a shipwreck, and a dramatic love triangle just to be here now, in his arms.

For a second, his soul visibly left his body. You saw it in his eyes—the pure panic, the moment of hesitation, the silent scream. Max’s eyebrows shot into another dimension. Oscar made a choking sound even though he hadn’t been eating or drinking anything. Charles just stared, wide-eyed, like he was watching a car crash in slow motion and couldn’t look away.

And then—somehow—Lando played along.

He caught you, steadied you, and wrapped an arm around your back like this was something he did every day. Like you hadn’t just given him the biggest ick known to mankind. Like this wasn’t the most unhinged greeting he’d ever received in public. He held you like it was normal. Like it was fine.

“Hey, love,” he said, his voice cracking just a little at the edges, like it was trying to hold itself together with duct tape and hope. “Good to see you.”

You almost broke character. Almost. Because the fact that he was committing to this? That he was actually going along with it? It was ridiculous. It was stupid. It was kind of… adorable.

You pulled back just enough to cup his cheeks in both hands, tilting his face toward yours like you were about to burst into tears from joy. “Lan-Lan,” you said, dragging out the nickname with as much drama as you could, “I missed you sooo much.”

You didn’t even have to look to know Max was cringing. You could feel it radiating off him like heat. Oscar had turned away, probably to keep from laughing. Charles looked like he was one sarcastic comment away from collapsing to the ground.

And Lando—sweet, poor, flustered Lando—somehow kept smiling. Barely. His eyes were wide, his jaw tight, but he didn’t let go.

“Yeah,” he wheezed, patting your arm like he wasn’t sure if you were going to kiss him or stage a public proposal. “Missed you too.”

You beamed at him, heart pounding with the thrill of it all.

You turned your attention to the trio standing just behind Lando, letting your gaze sweep over them slowly, like you were sizing up a suspicious group of teenagers loitering outside a convenience store. Their expressions were… well, interesting, to say the least. Somewhere between startled and deeply uncomfortable. Like they’d just been caught doing something illegal and weren’t sure if they should run or smile.

“You brought your little friends with you?” you asked sweetly, voice dripping with mock horror. You clutched your chest like you were genuinely scandalized. “Lando, I thought this was our special day.”

All three of them froze.

Their eyes went wide, like you’d just accused them of a federal crime. Max looked like he was calculating how fast he could disappear. Charles blinked once—slow, suspicious, like he was trying to figure out if you were dangerous or just deeply unwell. Oscar looked like he wanted to melt into the pavement.

“Um… yeah,” Lando said, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly regretting every decision that had led to this moment. “But they won’t bother us much. They’ll sit somewhere else.”

You raised an eyebrow, giving the trio a long, slow once-over. These were the famous F1 drivers? The legends? The icons? Honestly, they looked less like elite athletes and more like a trio of overgrown Powerpuff Girls—one brooding, one smug, one already emotionally exhausted.

“Well, yeah,” Lando added awkwardly, gesturing toward them like he was introducing a school project group he didn’t pick. “This is Oscar, Charles, and Max.”

The boys did not look thrilled. Not even a little.

Max crossed his arms, jaw tight, clearly plotting revenge in real time. Charles gave you the slowest blink you’d ever seen, like he was trying to process your entire existence in one go. Oscar just shook his head, muttering under his breath, “This is going to be a disaster.”

“Let’s go, Lando,” you said, grabbing his arm like you’d done it a hundred times before and tugging him toward the stadium entrance. No hesitation, no looking back. Just full steam ahead into the next phase of chaos.

Behind you, Max’s voice rang out, loud and delighted. “Have fun, lovebirds!” he called, waving like a maniac, clearly enjoying every second of this trainwreck.

You leaned in close to Lando as you walked, lowering your voice just enough to make it feel like a secret. “Ugh… Oscar,” you whispered, wrinkling your nose. “Seriously. He looks like he hasn’t felt a single emotion in his life. Creepy, right?”

You expected him to flinch. To pull away. To get weird about it. You were talking trash about his best mate, after all. This was supposed to be the moment he started to question you. To feel the ick. To wonder what he was doing here.

But instead—he laughed.

A real laugh. Not forced. Not polite. Just a soft, surprised huff of amusement that made his shoulders shake a little.

“Yeah… he’s a little scary, isn’t he?” Lando said, grinning as he shook his head. “Don’t worry. I’ll protect you from emotionless men in black.”

You blinked at him, thrown off for a second. That wasn’t the reaction you were expecting. Not even close. You’d meant it as a jab. A little test. Something to make him uncomfortable. But he’d just… rolled with it. Turned it into a joke. Matched your energy without missing a beat.

And now you were stuck somewhere between mild annoyance and reluctant admiration. Because damn it, he was quick. And charming. And apparently not as easy to rattle as you’d hoped.

You and Lando found your seats—surprisingly good ones. Padded cushions, perfect view, close enough to see the players’ expressions but far enough to avoid beer spills. It made sense, really. Lando was absolutely terrible at pretending not to be rich. He could say “I’m just a mechanic” all he wanted, but the man booked seats like he had a black card and a personal assistant.

You settled in, smoothing your jacket, crossing your legs just so. You took a slow sip of your drink, letting the moment settle. The sun was warm, the crowd buzzing, and Lando was next to you, fiddling with the zipper on his jacket like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. For a second, everything felt weirdly… calm.

Then you glanced over your shoulder.

And froze.

A few rows behind you—just far enough to pretend it was a coincidence, just close enough to ruin your life—sat Carol and Hanna. Your best friends. Your co-conspirators. Your chaos committee. Phones already out, eyes locked on you like hawks. You could practically feel the group chat exploding in real time.

And right next to them?

The Powerpuff Girls.

Max, Oscar, and Charles. All three of them. Sitting there like they were just regular guys, not international celebrities with faces you’d seen on billboards and magazine covers. Max looked like he was already bored. Oscar had his arms crossed, eyes scanning the crowd like a security guard. Charles was sipping something fizzy, legs crossed, sunglasses on, giving off the energy of a man who had seen things and was not impressed.

Of course.

Because coincidence wasn’t just real—it was a vindictive little bitch with a flair for drama.

You turned back around slowly, heart pounding, brain already racing through backup plans. This was supposed to be a controlled environment. A simple, low-stakes outing. But now the stakes were sky-high, and the audience was stacked with people who knew exactly what you were doing.

You turned back to Lando slowly, narrowing your eyes like you were about to interrogate him under a spotlight. He was trying to look relaxed, legs stretched out, hands in his lap—but you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched slightly against his thigh.

“So tell me,” you said, leaning in just enough to make him nervous, “where exactly did a mechanic get the money for seats like these?”

He froze for half a second. Blinked. And then, like a switch had flipped, he pasted on the most painfully casual smile you’d ever seen. It was the kind of smile that screamed I’m lying and I know it but I’m hoping you’re too polite to call me out.

“Uh—well—they were on sale,” he said, voice cracking just a little at the end. “And, you know… anything to charm a girl like you.”

You stared at him.

Right. And you were the Queen of England.

He cleared his throat, clearly scrambling now, and gestured around with a little flourish that looked like it had escaped before he could stop it. “And besides,” he added, trying to sound breezy, “you’re in Monaco, love. Every seat here is nice.”

You raised an eyebrow, sipping your drink slowly, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make him sweat. Sure. Keep lying, little mechanic boy. Keep digging that hole.

Because the more he tried to sell the story, the more obvious it became that he had no idea how to lie properly. And honestly? It was kind of endearing. In a deeply chaotic, wildly suspicious, how-is-this-your-plan kind of way.

You straightened in your seat, trying to look like you were deeply analyzing the game—like you were one of those people who said things like “high press” and actually meant it. You nodded slowly, seriously, as if you were watching a chess match instead of a bunch of men chasing a ball.

“Ah… yes, yes,” you said, voice low and thoughtful. “So… if he passes here, then—oh! And look! The defense… they’re, um… not very… aggressive?”

Lando turned to look at you, blinking once. You could see the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, and he was clearly trying to hold it back. Failing, but trying.

“Uh… yeah… sure,” he said, nodding solemnly. “That’s… exactly what’s happening.”

You leaned in a little closer, lowering your voice like you were sharing a secret. “I think if they just… like… kick it more… maybe… he’ll score? Or something. Totally strategic.”

That did it. He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “You’re… adorable when you pretend to know football.”

You froze.

Adorable?

Seriously?

You were trying to be chaotic. Weird. Mildly annoying. You were trying to make him question every decision that had led him to this moment. And instead, he was looking at you like you’d just handed him a puppy and a warm blanket.

“Uh… thanks,” you muttered, suddenly flustered. “I totally know what I’m talking about. Obviously.”

He winked, all smug and sweet at once. “Obviously.”

You turned back to the field, cheeks warm, heart doing something it absolutely shouldn’t be doing. This was not the plan. You were supposed to be giving him the ick. Making him regret this whole thing.

Instead, he was smiling like he actually liked you.

Perfect.

Your plan? Failing. Spectacularly.

────────────

DAY THREE

“This shit is not working!” you shouted, storming across the living room like a CEO about to fire her entire board. Your arms flailed, your voice echoed, and your pacing was so aggressive it was a miracle the floor didn’t file a complaint.

On the couch, Hanna and Carol lounged like they were watching a nature documentary. Hanna was even eating chips, legs tucked under her like this was just another Tuesday. Monsters. Absolute monsters.

“Yesterday was a disaster,” you groaned, pressing a dramatic hand to your forehead like a Victorian woman about to faint. “The football match? Horrible. It started horrible. First of all—he brought the idiots with him.”

“Powerpuff Girls,” Carol corrected, completely serious, not even looking up from her phone.

“Yes. Them.” You pointed like you were naming suspects in a murder trial. “And then I turn around and see you two talking to the idiots.”

Hanna raised a hand, calm as ever. “Correction: we were not talking to them. They were talking to us. Big difference.”

Carol nodded, still scrolling. “Yeah. Max said he liked my earrings.”

You stared at them like they’d just committed treason. “Jesus Christ.”

But you didn’t stop pacing. You couldn’t. Your brain was on fire, your plan was in shambles, and your friends were acting like this was a casual brunch recap.

“Doesn’t matter,” you muttered, throwing your hands in the air. “None of it matters. Then I try to give him the ick—again—and he just smiles. Smiles! Like I’m adorable or some shit.”

Hanna snorted, reaching for another chip. “Maybe he thinks you’re adorable.”

You froze mid-step, eyes narrowing.

That was not the point.

That was exactly the opposite of the point.

“No! Don’t even mention this,” you groaned, flopping onto the couch like your soul had left your body. You threw an arm over your eyes for dramatic effect, already spiraling. “I literally tried everything.”

Hanna raised an eyebrow, calm as ever. “Everything?”

“Yes!” you cried, sitting up just to gesture wildly. “I fake cried. Twice. I told him I don’t watch F1. Shit-talked Oscar—his teammate—in front of him! Nothing! He just smiled. Is he… is he immune to stupidity?”

Carol snorted from the other end of the couch. “He is stupidity.”

You blinked at her, thrown. “What?”

Carol shrugged, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “The more you act stupid, the more he plays along. He likes it.”

You let out a groan so loud it could’ve cracked glass. You flopped back again, arms splayed like you were auditioning for a tragic stage play. “No. No. No. That is not supposed to happen. That’s cheating. He’s cheating the system.”

Hanna popped a chip in her mouth, completely unbothered. “Maybe the system’s broken.”

You opened your mouth, ready to launch into the next chapter of your meltdown—something about how the universe was clearly conspiring against you—when—

“Y/n.”

You froze mid-breath.

Hanna froze, chip halfway to her mouth.

Carol froze with a mouthful of pretzels, eyes wide.

The three of you turned to each other in perfect sync, sharing one identical look of pure, unfiltered horror.

“…Please tell me that was the TV,” you whispered, voice barely audible.

“We’re not watching TV,” Hanna whispered back, eyes locked on yours.

Then it came again—louder this time, unmistakable:

“Y/N! COME DOWN!”

Your body snapped toward the window like someone had yanked an invisible string. You crept over, heart pounding, and slowly peeled back the curtain.

And there he was.

Lando Norris.

Standing on the sidewalk like it was the most normal thing in the world. Hands shoved in his pockets. Helmet dangling casually from one wrist. And next to him? A tiny electric scooter that looked like it belonged to a twelve-year-old. It was bright red, slightly scuffed, and absolutely not the kind of vehicle a humble mechanic would be zipping around Monaco on.

You stared.

He looked up and spotted you instantly, grinning like this was a romcom and you were about to run down the stairs into his arms.

You, meanwhile, were dying. Actively. Internally combusting.

“WHAT DOES HE WANT?! HOW DOES HE EVEN KNOW WHERE I LIVE?!” you whisper-shouted, pacing the living room like a cat that had just had three shots of espresso. Your hands were flying, your heart was racing, and your brain was doing somersaults. This was not part of the plan. This was not supposed to happen.

“AM I SUPPOSED TO KNOW?!” Hanna shouted back from the couch, just as dramatic, throwing her arms in the air like she was in a soap opera.

Carol, of course, was completely calm. She shrugged, still chewing on a pretzel. “He probably followed you home.”

You spun around to glare at her. “CAROL.”

She blinked. “What? It’s Monaco. Everything’s five minutes apart.”

You groaned, threw your hands up, and marched over to the window. With a deep breath, you leaned halfway out, trying to look casual even though your soul was screaming.

“Lanny, babyy!” you called, voice high and sweet and fake. “What are you doing here?!”

And then you froze.

Lanny? What the hell had just come out of your mouth? You didn’t even know where that nickname came from. Maybe—hopefully—it would finally give him the ick. Maybe he’d turn around and scooter away forever.

But no. Of course not.

Because there he was. Lando Norris. Standing on the sidewalk like it was the most normal thing in the world. Hands in his pockets, helmet dangling from one wrist, next to a tiny red scooter. It was 11 PM. He was smiling like this was a perfectly reasonable time to show up uninvited.

“I was going by,” he said, grinning up at you, “and I thought I could take you for a ride… and ice cream?”

You squinted at him, trying to figure out if he was serious. “At 11 PM?”

He shrugged, lifting the helmet slightly. “Yeah. Midnight gelato. Best time of day.”

You stared at him.

Well, of course you agreed.

This man was going to ruin your life. And somehow, you were starting to think you might let him.

The scooter ride had been… a lot. Wind in your face, your hair whipping around like it had a personal vendetta, and Lando narrating the entire journey like he was hosting a motorsport documentary. “This corner’s perfect for leaning,” he’d said at least three times, like that meant anything to a normal person. Meanwhile, you were just trying not to scream or fall off the back of his ridiculous little scooter.

Eventually, you pulled up outside a tiny gelato shop tucked between two quiet buildings, its windows glowing soft and golden like something out of a fairy tale. Or a fever dream. Honestly, it could go either way.

You hopped off, brushing your hair out of your face, hands on your hips. Your brain was already spinning with possibilities. You needed a new tactic. Something bold. Something unhinged. Something that would finally make him back away slowly and question all his life choices.

Marriage.

Yes. That was it. Commitment. The ultimate ick. Lando Norris hated that stuff, right? Weddings, forever, matching bathrobes—probably his worst nightmare. Right up there with McLaren strategy meetings and running out of hair product.

You turned to him, gelato in hand, and went for it.

“Lanny! Guess what!” you said, voice high and bright and full of fake joy. “I already planned our wedding!”

You even held your gelato up like it was a bouquet. Cringe level: maximum. You were proud of it.

He blinked at you. Just for a second. Just long enough for you to think, Yes. This is it. He’s going to run.

But then—he grinned.

“No way, love,” he said, eyes sparkling. “That’s perfect!”

You froze mid-bite, spoon halfway to your mouth.

Perfect?

This was your third date. Third. And he was already playing along like you’d just told him you booked the venue and he was picking the cake. No hesitation. No weird look. Just… full commitment to the bit.

You stared at him, completely thrown.

This man was not playing fair.

You inhaled sharply, steeling yourself. Fine. If marriage didn’t scare him, you’d just have to take it up a notch. Go bigger. Weirder. Push the chaos to its limits.

“So!” you chirped, looping your arm through his as you strolled toward a little table outside the gelato shop. “The wedding theme is… Disney princesses.”

Lando stumbled a little, catching himself with a quick step. “Princesses?”

“Mm-hm,” you said, taking an exaggerated lick of your gelato like it was a royal decree. “I’ll arrive in a giant pumpkin carriage pulled by actual white horses. Real ones. With little flower crowns. And you—” you paused for dramatic effect, “—you’ll be in a sparkly blue tux. Like Cinderella. But, you know, the man-version.”

Lando blinked at you, clearly trying to picture it. “A blue tux? With sparkles?”

You nodded, dead serious. “And glass slippers. Obviously.”

He stared at you for a beat too long. You waited for the grimace. The hesitation. The slow backing away. But instead—

He snorted.

The man snorted.

Then he smiled, wide and warm, like you’d just told him the most charming thing he’d ever heard. “If it makes you happy,” he said, eyes dancing, “I’ll wear two pairs.”

You froze, spoon halfway to your mouth.

Two pairs?

Oh my god.

Was he… enjoying this?

This was supposed to be the moment he cracked. The moment he realized you were too much, too weird, too extra. But instead, he was grinning like he was already halfway to the altar, glass slippers and all.

You stared at him, heart thudding, brain short-circuiting.

You stared at him, completely baffled. This was it. Time for the nuclear option. If this didn’t send him running, nothing would.

“And our honeymoon?” you said sweetly, like you hadn’t just declared emotional war.

He raised an eyebrow, playful. “Oh? Where are we going, Mrs. Norris?”

Mrs. Norris.

You nearly dropped your gelato. The spoon wobbled in your hand. Your brain short-circuited for a full second. That name should’ve made you gag. Instead, it made your stomach do something deeply inconvenient.

“Hawaii,” you said, recovering fast. “But not the pretty honeymoon part. The volcano part. I want us to take couple photos in front of lava. Like, actual lava. Bubbling. Dangerous. Symbolic.”

Lando paused, spoon halfway to his mouth. You waited for the grimace. The hesitation. The what is wrong with you look.

But no.

He nodded, completely serious. “Lava’s romantic. Warm lighting.”

You choked. “Warm lighting?!”

He just smiled, soft and easy, and scooped another spoonful of gelato—then held it out to you like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he wasn’t supposed to be running for his life right now.

You stared at him, stunned. Melting faster than the gelato in your hand.

This was supposed to be sabotage. A slow, strategic unraveling. But instead, it was turning into something else entirely.

────────────

DAY FOUR

Somehow, Lando had found out you really liked art. Not just “likes pretty pictures” liked it, but the kind of like where you could spend hours in a gallery, quietly walking from one painting to the next, letting the colors and brushstrokes sink into your chest. You never told him that. Not directly. And yet, here you were—walking into a gallery with soft lighting and quiet music, your hand tucked into his like it belonged there.

It was thoughtful. Suspiciously thoughtful. Because Lando didn’t exactly scream “art guy.” His idea of creative expression started and ended with the design of his race helmets. And yet, he’d brought you here. To this place. With its white walls and whispered conversations and paintings that made your heart ache in the best way. You had no idea how he knew. It almost felt like he’d read a listicle about you. “Top 25 Things Y/n Loves.” If anyone else had done that, it would’ve been creepy. But when it was Lando? It was… weirdly flattering. Dangerous, even.

You walked through the gallery hand in hand, and it was soft in a way that made your chest feel tight. The kind of soft that made strangers smile at you. The kind of soft that felt like a photo someone would take and keep forever. But Lando? He stuck out like a sore thumb dipped in neon paint. He looked completely out of place—like a man trying to read a menu in a language he didn’t speak, hoping the pictures would help. His eyes darted from painting to painting, his head tilted like he was trying to understand what made them special. It was obvious he didn’t get it. But he was trying. For you.

And that? That was dangerously hot.

You stopped in front of a massive Monet. The colors were soft and glowing, like a dream you didn’t want to wake up from. Blues and greens and gentle reflections, water lilies floating like they were made of light. It made something shift in your chest. Something quiet and warm and a little overwhelming.

Lando squinted at the corner of the painting, leaning in slightly. “Wow… Monet, huh?”

You glanced at him, lips twitching. At least he could read.

But when you looked closer, you saw it—the way he was watching you, not the painting. Like he was trying to figure out what you saw in it. Like he wanted to understand, even if he didn’t.

You nodded, relieved to be on familiar ground. “Yes! One of the greats. Impressionism. Emotion. Atmosphere. He basically reinvented how people saw the world—how they painted light, movement, feeling—”

“I could totally do that myself,” Lando said.

You gasped so loudly it echoed off the gallery walls. An elderly couple turned around, startled. A security guard glanced over. Somewhere, you were sure Monet rolled in his grave.

“I’m serious,” Lando said, completely unfazed, hands on his hips like he was inspecting a construction site. “Give me five minutes, a sponge, and some paint, and—boom—same thing.”

Your hands flew to your chest like you’d just been personally attacked. “Are you comparing yourself to MONET?!”

He shrugged. Shrugged. Like he hadn’t just committed art blasphemy in public. “What? It’s just… blurry flowers.”

You stared at him, mouth open, heart pounding, unsure whether to laugh, cry, or drag him out by the collar. But then he looked at you with that stupid grin, like he knew exactly what he was doing. Like he’d said it just to get a rise out of you. And damn it, it was working.

“BLURRY—” you gasped, clutching your chest like you’d just been stabbed. “Blurrrrry FLOWERS?! Lando, that’s Water Lilies. That’s history. That’s emotion. That’s art.”

He didn’t even flinch. Just raised one eyebrow, calm and smug, like he was about to win a debate he hadn’t studied for. “Looks like flowers having an identity crisis to me.”

You stared at him, stunned. You could actually feel your soul leaving your body. Packing its bags. Booking a one-way flight. Waving goodbye.

“You can’t even draw a straight line, baby,” you snapped, turning to glare at him like he’d just insulted your entire bloodline.

He shrugged. Shrugged. With the kind of confidence only a man who had never been humbled by a blank canvas could pull off. “If I actually put effort into it, it’d be way better.”

Oh.

Oh, perfect.

A beautiful opportunity had just fallen into your lap. A chance for public humiliation. A dramatic scene. The kind of moment that would live in his memory forever, filed under reasons to never date Y/n again.

The ultimate ick delivery system.

Your plan?

Back on track.

And this time, you were going to make sure he regretted ever doubting Monet.

“Better?” you repeated, voice low and dangerous, eyes narrowing like you were about to put him on trial. “You think you could do better than Monet?”

Lando lifted one shoulder in a lazy half-shrug, hands tucked into his pockets like this was a casual chat about breakfast options. “I mean… yeah? If I tried hard enough.”

You let out a laugh so loud it echoed through the gallery. Two old ladies turned around, scandalized. One of them clutched her pearls. The other narrowed her eyes like she was ready to defend Monet’s honor with her handbag.

Amazing. Perfect. A crowd.

Exactly what you needed.

“OH! OH REALLY?!” you cried, stepping back and throwing your arms wide like you were about to deliver a Shakespearean monologue. “YOU think you could paint something better than WATER LILIES?!”

Lando blinked at the sudden attention, clearly clocking the small audience now watching your meltdown like it was performance art. But instead of backing down, he just smiled, cool as ever. “Well, yeah. Not saying I will, just saying I could.”

You slapped your forehead with a dramatic groan, staggering back like his words had physically wounded you.

The old ladies gasped in unison.

A child nearby giggled, delighted.

And Lando?

Still standing there, smug and unbothered, like he hadn’t just committed artistic blasphemy in public.

“HE THINKS HE CAN OUT-PAINT MONET!” you shouted, voice echoing through the gallery as you pointed at Lando like he was a medieval criminal awaiting judgment. Heads turned. A security guard looked mildly alarmed. Somewhere in the distance, a docent paused mid-tour.

Lando just smiled, hands lifted in mock surrender, like he was being arrested for stealing hearts. “Okay, okay. Calm down, darlin’.”

Darlin’.

Oh. New nickname unlocked. But no. He wasn’t getting off that easy.

“No!” you snapped, arms crossing with dramatic flair. “No calming down. Do you even understand how insulting this is to me? I bring you to Monet—MONET—and you say… ‘blurry flowers’?!”

“I stand by it,” he said, completely calm, like he wasn’t actively committing art treason in front of witnesses.

You gasped, loud and theatrical, like you’d just been told your favorite childhood pet was a lie. “You know what?” you said, stepping closer, voice dropping into something serious and dangerous. “This is serious.”

Lando tilted his head, eyes soft and steady. “Serious?”

“SERIOUS,” you said, stepping closer like you were about to deliver life-changing news. You lowered your voice, slow and dramatic, like a doctor in a movie. “I think… we need couples therapy.”

There was a sharp gasp from the couple standing nearby. Someone behind you whispered, “No way…” like they were watching a soap opera unfold in real time.

But Lando?

He didn’t even blink.

He just nodded, calm as ever. “Alright,” he said, like you’d just suggested grabbing coffee. “If that’s what you want, yeah. We can totally do it.”

You stared at him, completely thrown. “I—what?”

“We can do couples therapy,” he repeated, voice gentle, like this was the most normal thing in the world. “If it’ll help you feel better.”

You blinked. Once. Twice. Your brain made that weird crashing sound, like an old computer freezing mid-task. You could almost hear the error message pop up in your head. System overload. Please restart.

“What—Lando, we’re not— I mean, it’s been—” You stopped yourself just in time. You were about to blow the whole thing. The fake relationship. The sabotage plan. The carefully crafted chaos.

But then he reached out, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. Soft. Steady. Like he meant it.

“Whatever you need, love,” he said, eyes warm. “I’m in.”

Your mouth fell open. You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t even think. Because what the actual fuck was happening? How was he not running? How was he not even confused?

Was he immune to everything? Or—worse—was he playing you at your own game?

Because if this was reverse psychology, it was working. And if it wasn’t… you were in serious trouble.

Your heart was doing something it absolutely should not be doing.

And your plan?

Yeah. It was falling apart in the most terrifying, wonderful way.

────────────

DAY FIVE

The therapist—poor, unsuspecting woman—looked between you and Lando with the exact expression of someone who had just realized they’d walked into a live minefield wearing flip-flops. Her smile was polite, but her eyes were already scanning for exits. She folded her hands gently in her lap, trying to keep things calm. “So,” she said, voice soft and careful, “what brings you two here today?”

You took a deep, dramatic breath, like you were about to deliver a monologue. Lando, meanwhile, sat beside you like he’d been preparing for this moment his entire life. One leg crossed over the other, completely relaxed, like this was just another casual stop on his calendar. He looked like the kind of man who thought therapy was a fun little bonding activity. You, on the other hand, were ready to burn the room down.

“Where do I begin?” you said, throwing your hands up like the weight of your fake relationship was too much to bear. “There’s a lot wrong.”

Lando nodded, serious as ever. “We’re very complex.”

You turned to glare at him. He just smiled back, soft and golden and infuriating, like a golden retriever who’d just chewed up your favorite shoes but still expected a cuddle. It was impossible to stay mad at him, which only made you more mad.

The therapist blinked, clearly trying to keep up. “Alright… maybe start with something specific?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Monet.”

Lando let out a quiet groan beside you, already sensing where this was going. “Oh, come on—”

“No,” you said, cutting him off, leaning forward like you were about to present evidence in a courtroom. “Because I need you to understand this. He pointed at Water Lilies—WATER. LILIES.—and called it ‘blurry flowers.’”

You could feel your heart rate rising just thinking about it again. The betrayal. The audacity. The complete lack of respect for one of the greatest artists in history. And Lando? He just sat there, looking mildly amused, like this was all part of some inside joke you hadn’t been let in on.

You weren’t sure what was worse—the fact that he’d said it, or the fact that he still didn’t seem sorry.

And the therapist?

She looked like she was starting to regret her career choices.

Lando shrugged, completely unbothered. “It’s objectively true. They were blurry.”

You slapped your hand over your face, dragging it down slowly like you were trying to physically hold in your soul before it escaped your body.

“And!” you said, voice rising again as you pointed at him like you were building a case in front of a jury. “He genuinely believes he could paint better than Monet if he—” you made air quotes with your fingers, “—‘put effort into it.’”

The therapist turned to Lando slowly, like she was bracing herself for whatever nonsense might come next. “Do you truly believe that?”

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Thought for a second. Then, with the confidence of a man who had never once been told no in his life, said, “…Yes?”

You gasped so hard it felt like your lungs had collapsed. “SEE?! He’s delusional!”

Lando reached over and patted your knee like you were the one who needed comforting. “It’s okay to be intimidated by my artistic potential.”

You stared at him, stunned. The therapist cleared her throat, clearly trying to steer the conversation back to safer ground. “Right… okay… let’s maybe explore other areas of concern?”

“Oh, fantastic,” you said, sitting up straighter, ready for round two. “His friends.”

Lando perked up, suddenly alert. “What about my friends?”

“Everything,” you said, waving your hand like you were listing off crimes. “Max is terrifying. Charles is too beautiful—it’s offensive, honestly. And Oscar? Oscar looks like a man who hasn’t felt a single emotion since 2017.”

Lando choked on air, coughing as he tried to speak. “That’s so rude—”

“I’m not done,” you said, holding up a finger like a warning sign. “The real issue is that you’re basically in love with them. All of them. But mostly Oscar.”

The therapist blinked, then turned to Lando again, her voice cautious. “Are you… romantically involved with Oscar?”

Lando sputtered, eyes wide. “WHAT? No! He’s just my—he’s not even emotional enough for romance—”

“Ah!” you said, pointing at him like you’d just cracked the case wide open. “Defensiveness. Classic sign.”

The therapist, bless her, didn’t even flinch. She just nodded and scribbled something down in her notebook, probably under a heading like delusional couple, possibly unhinged.

Lando turned to you with a soft glare, the kind that said he was trying very hard not to laugh. “I am not in love with Oscar.”

The therapist turned to you next, her voice calm and curious. “And why do you feel he acts… ‘too in love’?”

You crossed your arms, settling into your seat like you were about to deliver a TED Talk. “Because,” you said, slow and serious, “he looks at me with the same face he looks at Oscar with. And that is not comforting.”

Lando groaned and dragged a hand down his face. “That is just my face.”

“Exactly,” you said, like you’d just won the argument.

The therapist nodded again, thoughtful. “And how does that make you feel?”

You opened your mouth, ready to launch into a dramatic answer about emotional neglect and facial ambiguity—

But Lando beat you to it.

“Very loved,” he said softly, “I hope.”

You froze.

Just for a second.

Because the way he said it—quiet, honest, like he meant it—hit you somewhere you weren’t expecting. It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t smug. It was just… real.

And suddenly, all your fake complaints and dramatic gestures felt a little too close to something true.

You didn’t know what to say.

The therapist smiled like she was watching her favorite slow-burn romance unfold in real time. Like she was already planning to tell her coworkers about this session over lunch. Fantastic. Completely useless.

Your heart did a stupid little flip at the look on Lando’s face—soft, steady, like he meant every word he hadn’t even said yet. You crushed the feeling immediately. Sat on it. Smothered it. Set it on fire. This was not the time.

“ANYWAY,” you said, louder than necessary, trying to drag the conversation back to safer, more chaotic ground. “He also acts like he’s already in love with me. Which is weird. And suspicious. And wrong.”

Lando just shrugged, like you’d pointed out the weather. “Can’t help it.”

You nearly slipped off the damn chair.

The therapist turned to him with that warm, encouraging gaze that made you want to throw a pillow at her. “And Lando, how do you feel about what she’s saying?”

He didn’t pause. Didn’t fidget. Didn’t even blink.

“I love her,” he said, voice low and sure. “And I want her to believe it. There’s no one else. Especially not Oscar.”

You stared at him.

Because there was no smirk. No teasing glint in his eye. No wink to let you know he was still playing the game. Just… honesty. Like he’d peeled something open and handed it to you without asking if you wanted it.

The therapist, still clearly recovering from the “no one else except Oscar” revelation, folded her hands with the kind of calm that only made things feel more chaotic. She tilted her head, voice gentle, like she was asking something simple. Harmless.

“And… how long have you two been dating?”

You opened your mouth.

Lando opened his at the exact same time.

“Five days—” you said.

“Three months—” he said.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Even the potted plant in the corner seemed to lean away from the tension.

You turned to him so fast your neck cracked. “THREE MONTHS?!”

Lando blinked at you, wide-eyed and innocent, like he hadn’t just detonated a lie in the middle of a therapy session. “It feels like three months,” he said softly, with a little shrug. “Time moves differently when you’re in love.”

You stared at him, completely thrown. Your brain was trying to reboot, but the loading wheel was spinning uselessly. This man was lying. Boldly. Casually. With a straight face and a soft voice and a look that said I’d do it again.

The therapist, meanwhile, looked like she was watching the final scene of her favorite romance movie. She clasped her hands tighter, eyes practically glowing. “Oh, that’s beautiful.”

Beautiful?

Beautiful?!

What the actual fuck was this man’s plan?

Because if this was still fake, he was terrifyingly good at it.

And if it wasn’t…

You were in so much trouble.

© verstarris 2025

babs radio ! I’d love to dedicate this one to @zariacore in the honor of lando winning the 2025 championship 🩵. What a weekend. If you told me in 2022 he will fight for wdc instead of points, I’d laugh in your face… times change! Anyway, this is only part 1 of 2. I did not in fact start writing the other half🫣 but please be patient, two weeks before Christmas in school are pure hell lol.

And then—like fate was rooting for your downfall—the perfect opportunity landed in your lap. Practically gift-wrapped. Poker night. With the boys.

It was almost too easy. Suspiciously easy. Like the universe was setting you up. Or maybe Lando was. At this point, you wouldn’t put it past him. He probably wanted you to meet them. Probably thought you’d charm them. Probably had no idea you were about to unleash a level of chaos no friendship could survive.

You hadn’t even known Lando was bringing you until he was already dragging you through Oscar’s front door, grinning like a kid who’d just found a stray animal and decided to keep it. “I come with a plus one!” he announced proudly, like he expected applause. Like this was a party trick.

Max blinked once, slowly, like he was trying to process what he was seeing.

Charles muttered something in French under his breath that sounded suspiciously judgmental.

Oscar froze mid-shuffle, a card halfway to the table, staring at you like you were a raccoon that had wandered into a board meeting and refused to leave.

You smiled sweetly, all teeth and menace.

Oh, this was going to be delicious.

You slid into the seat next to Lando, brushing your knee against his like the clingiest, most unhinged girlfriend imaginable. The kind who already had a Pinterest board titled Our Wedding Vibes. Lando didn’t even blink. He just smiled and scooted closer, like he was encouraging it.

Perfect.

Time to cause problems. On purpose.

But apparently Max had other plans.

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes gleaming with the kind of energy that only came from a man who lived for chaos. “So, Y/n…” he said, voice casual in the way a lit match is casual before it hits gasoline. “Can you remind me what you do for work?”

Oh.

So that’s how we’re playing.

This was not how it was supposed to go. You were supposed to be the one asking the questions, poking at their fragile little egos, planting seeds of doubt. Not the other way around. Not Max Verstappen leaning forward like a smug little chaos goblin, ready to dissect your entire existence with one casual question.

Your brain scrambled. What had you told Lando on your first date? Something vague. Something forgettable. Mechanic? No, that was his job. You were the dramatic one, not the liar. You didn’t plan your chaos—you just let it happen.

And then it hit you.

You flipped your hair with the confidence of someone who had absolutely no business being confident. The kind of confidence only a pathological liar—or a woman on a mission—could summon.

“Finding lost socks,” you said sweetly, voice dripping with fake innocence. “Something you’d never understand.”

Max blinked, clearly trying to figure out if you were joking or just deeply unwell.

Oscar’s mouth fell open, a card still frozen in his hand.

Charles coughed into his fist, but you saw the smile he was trying to hide.

And Lando?

Lando looked at you like you’d just solved world peace. Like you’d painted the sky. Like you were the most brilliant, beautiful, sock-finding creature to ever walk the earth.

“See?” he said, beaming. “She’s special.”

Jesus Christ.

Then you turned to the trio with the brightest, most innocent smile you could manage. The kind of smile that said I’m just curious! when really, it meant I’m about to ruin your night. You tilted your head, all sugar and sunshine, and asked sweetly, “And what do you do? You three.”

Silence.

Immediate. Catastrophic. The kind of silence that drops like a bomb in the middle of a room and leaves everyone scrambling for cover. You could practically hear the tension crackle in the air.

Lando’s head whipped toward them so fast it was a miracle he didn’t sprain something. It wasn’t just a glance—it was a full-body warning. A don’t you dare kind of look. The kind of look that said if you say one wrong word, I will run you over with my scooter and then reverse for good measure.

Max froze mid-breath, like he’d just been caught doing something illegal.

Oscar blinked slowly, like someone had unplugged him and forgotten to reboot.

Charles stared at the ceiling, lips pressed together, already regretting every decision that had led him to this exact moment. You could see it in his eyes—the quiet, desperate wish to disappear into the drywall.

Finally, Lando cleared his throat, voice a little too high, a little too fast. “Um—Max is… a streamer.”

Max turned to him, squinting like he’d just been personally betrayed. Like that’s the best Lando could come up with? Streamer? He looked like he wanted to throw a card at his head.

You bit back a grin, watching the chaos unfold like it was your favorite show. Because this? This was going perfectly.

“And Charles is a model,” Lando said with the kind of confidence that made it sound like he was listing off Nobel Prize winners. And to be fair, Charles didn’t exactly deny it. He sat up straighter, ran a hand through his hair like he was in a cologne ad, and gave a small, satisfied nod. Honestly, you couldn’t even be mad. The man looked like he belonged in a museum. Of course he was a model. Of course he was proud of it.

Then Lando turned to Oscar, and everything slowed down. You could see the exact moment panic set in. Oscar’s eyes widened just a little, his whole body tensing like he was bracing for impact. He didn’t say a word, but the message was clear: Please don’t ruin my life.

Lando hesitated for a beat. Just long enough to make it worse. Then he smiled, all charm and mischief, and said, “Oscar lives off his dad’s money. Yeah.”

Oscar’s soul visibly left his body. He didn’t even try to argue. Just sat there, blinking, like he’d been hit by a truck made of shame. Max let out a wheeze so loud it echoed off the walls, practically falling out of his chair. Charles choked on his drink, coughing into his sleeve, eyes wide with secondhand embarrassment.

And you?

You beamed. Absolutely radiant. Like a villain in a romcom who just watched her evil plan unfold perfectly. You leaned back in your chair, soaking in the chaos like it was sunshine.

“Wow,” you said, voice sweet and sharp all at once. “A streamer, a model, and a nepo baby. Amazing.”

Lando looked absurdly proud of himself, like he’d just delivered a flawless introduction. Like he hadn’t just casually thrown his best friend under the bus and then reversed over him for good measure.

Charles was still coughing—whether from laughter or sheer panic, it was hard to tell—as he reached for his drink, trying to recover some sense of dignity. “Oui, oui, very funny,” he muttered, waving a hand like he was brushing the moment away. “But at least after our last ra—”

He didn’t get to finish.

Lando kicked him under the table so hard the cards jumped. The sound was sharp, a sudden thud that made everyone flinch. Charles jolted, eyes going wide as he choked on his words—and possibly his pride.

“—our last run,” he corrected quickly, voice too high, too fast. He was sweating now, blinking like he’d just been caught cheating on a test. “Run. Jog. Morning jog. Yes.”

Max stared at him like he’d just watched a car crash in slow motion. His expression was somewhere between horrified and deeply entertained. Oscar, meanwhile, didn’t say a word. He just slowly lifted a card to cover half his face, like if he couldn’t see you, maybe you couldn’t see him either.

You narrowed your eyes, suspicion rising like steam. “Your last run?” you asked, dragging the word out. “You four run together?”

Max nodded way too fast, like he was trying to convince both you and himself. “Yes. Team runs,” he said, then paused, clearly realizing how weird that sounded. “Running team. We run. As a team.”

You stared at them.

They stared back.

And for the first time all night, you weren’t sure who was lying more—you, with your fake relationship and sock-finding job… or them, with their mysterious “morning jogs” and collective panic.

Something was going on.

“What’s the team called?” you asked, eyes wide with fake curiosity, voice dipped in sugar. You were fascinated—genuinely. Not by the answer, but by how badly they were about to fumble it.

Oscar panicked. You saw it happen in real time. His whole body stiffened, like someone had just asked him to recite the alphabet backwards under pressure. “Red. Bull,” he blurted out, like a man throwing himself on a grenade.

Lando groaned and slapped a hand over his face, dragging it down slowly like he was trying to erase the moment from existence.

“RUNNING Bulls,” Oscar corrected quickly, voice cracking. “The… running club. Obviously.”

Charles looked like he was about to cry. Not from sadness—just from the sheer effort of trying to keep up with the mental gymnastics. His eyes were glassy. His soul was leaving his body.

You smiled, sweet and slow, like a cat watching a group of mice try to build a house of cards. “I didn’t know any of you were athletic.”

Max made a sound that was somewhere between a scoff and a wheeze. His face turned red, like he was physically holding back a scream. You were pretty sure a single vein in his forehead was doing all the work of keeping him upright.

Lando, of course, was unfazed. He leaned back in his chair like he was on a yacht, slung an arm over your shoulders, and whispered, “Yeah, baby. We’re basically Olympians.”

You blinked at him.

Charles, still recovering, mouthed at Lando with wide, betrayed eyes: You owe me for that.

Oscar, who looked like he was about to combust, mouthed back: RUNNING BULLS?? REALLY??

You sat there, basking in the chaos, wondering how much longer you could keep this up before one of them cracked completely.

“So…” you said, drawing the word out like you were settling into a cozy chair. “The Running Bulls, huh?”

You didn’t even try to hide your grin. You wanted to watch them squirm.

And oh, they did.

All four of them tensed at once, like someone had hit a big red button labeled PANIC. Max’s poker chip slipped right through his fingers and clattered to the floor. Charles sat bolt upright, spine stiff as a board, like someone had yanked invisible strings. Oscar actually whispered, “Oh God,” under his breath, like he was praying for a quick and painless death. And Lando? Lando looked like he was bracing for impact, jaw tight, eyes darting between his friends like he was calculating who to sacrifice first.

“Tell me more!” you said brightly, like you weren’t actively setting fire to the room. “Like… how often do you run?”

“Every day,” Max blurted, too fast.

“Twice a day,” Charles added, trying to sound confident.

“Once a week,” Oscar mumbled, already regretting everything.

“NEVER,” Lando snapped, turning to glare at the three of them like they’d just betrayed a sacred oath. “We never run. We hate running.”

You blinked. “So… which is it?”

And that was it. The dam broke.

Max turned on Charles immediately. “You told her twice a day? What are we, military?”

Charles threw his hands up. “Better than every day, imbécile! That sounds obsessive!”

Oscar raised both hands in surrender. “In my defense, I panicked.”

Suddenly Oscar cleared his throat, clearly trying to be the adult in the room. He leaned forward a little, hands folded like he was about to mediate a peace treaty. “So… um… how’s… uh… your relationship going?” he asked, voice careful, eyes flicking nervously toward Lando like he was checking for landmines.

You blinked at him, stunned for half a second. Then you smiled. Because oh, bless him—he had no idea what he’d just done. It was like he’d handed you a microphone and a spotlight and said, Go ahead, perform. You leaned in, resting your elbows on the table, your voice syrupy sweet.

“Oh, it’s… great,” you said, dragging the word out like honey. “Actually, I was just thinking about something really important. Baby names.”

Lando froze mid-bite, his fork halfway to his mouth. His eyes widened just slightly, like his brain had short-circuited. Max fumbled his cards, nearly dropping them all over the table. Charles made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a gasp, like he couldn’t decide whether to be horrified or impressed.

Oscar blinked at you, completely thrown. “Wait… what?”

“Yes!” you said, your voice rising with excitement, like you were talking about a new hobby. “Names for our future children. I was thinking we could start with the classics, you know? Something timeless. Like Gertrude or Bartholomew.” You paused, tapping your chin thoughtfully. “Or maybe something a little more modern. Like… Moonbeam. Or Rocket.”

The silence that followed was thick enough to cut with a knife.

Lando still hadn’t moved. He looked like he was trying to decide whether to laugh, cry, or fake a power outage and run. Max was staring at you like you’d just confessed to being an alien. Charles had buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking. And Oscar? Poor Oscar looked like he was regretting every decision that had led him to this moment.

Lando’s jaw dropped just a little, but to his credit, he didn’t even flinch. He blinked once, then nodded slowly, like you’d just suggested ordering Thai food instead of naming your hypothetical children after celestial bodies and 18th-century explorers.

“Those are… options,” he said, calm as ever. Like this was a perfectly reasonable conversation to be having in the middle of poker night with his very normal, very judgmental friends.

You weren’t done.

“Oh! And middle names are so important,” you continued, your voice bright and unbothered, like you hadn’t just detonated a relationship bomb in the middle of the room. “We could do themes! Like animals. Or famous explorers. Or—ooh—alliteration! Penelope Penguin. Barnaby Bear. You know, something with character.”

Max choked on his drink, coughing violently as he tried to recover. Charles groaned into his hand, dragging it down his face like he was physically in pain. Oscar, poor soul, had started to slide toward the edge of his chair, eyes wide and unblinking, like he was watching a slow-motion car crash and couldn’t look away.

You turned to Lando, batting your lashes with the full force of fake-girlfriend energy. “And what do you think, Lanny?”

He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even blink.

“I think,” he said, voice low and serious, “whatever you pick, I’ll love it.”

You blinked.

Your brain short-circuited.

Because—what?

That wasn’t the plan. That wasn’t the a bit. That was… something else. Something warm and soft and way too sincere for a room full of poker chips and panic.

Even you had to admit—it was too much.

────────────

DAY SEVEN

Lando had insisted on dragging you back to the art gallery. You didn’t get it. Maybe he was trying to redeem himself after the last time—when he’d loudly declared Monet was “just doing vibes” and nearly got you both kicked out by a very offended docent.

But this time… this time felt different.

He wasn’t being sarcastic. He wasn’t cracking jokes just to hear you laugh or poking fun at the art like it was some inside joke only he understood. He was quieter. More grounded. Like he was actually here, not just performing for your benefit.

You stopped in front of the same Monet as before—Water Lilies, soft and hazy and somehow still humming with life. You glanced at Lando, expecting a smirk or a snide comment.

Instead, he leaned in slightly, his voice low and thoughtful. “You know,” he said, eyes fixed on the painting, “Monet painted this while he was losing his vision. Cataracts. The colors started shifting for him. Everything got blurrier, warmer. He painted from memory, mostly. From his garden in Giverny.”

You looked at him, surprised. He wasn’t just reciting facts—he meant it. There was something gentle in the way he spoke, like he respected it. Like he understood what it meant to keep creating even when the world started slipping out of focus.

And for a moment, you forgot this was supposed to be a bit. A game. A fake relationship built on sabotage and chaos.

Your eyes widened, caught off guard. “Wait… you actually know that?”

Lando just shrugged, a small grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. It wasn’t smug or teasing—just soft, a little shy. “I did some reading,” he said, like it was no big deal. “Thought you’d like it.”

For a second, you couldn’t speak. Your heart did this weird little skip, like it had tripped over itself. He’d read about Monet. For you. Not for a joke, not to make fun of the art like last time. He’d actually taken the time to learn something because he thought it might matter to you. Because he wanted to understand what you liked. That realization hit you harder than you expected.

You looked at him, trying to find the right words, but they caught in your throat. “Lando… that’s… actually really sweet.”

He tilted his head, eyes warm, and reached up to gently brush a stray hair behind your ear. The touch was light, careful, like he didn’t want to startle you. “I want you to like it here,” he said quietly. “I want you to like everything… if I can make it happen.”

And just like that, the air between you shifted. It wasn’t a joke anymore. It wasn’t a game. It was him, standing there in front of you, trying—really trying—to make something feel good and safe and real.

And you didn’t know what to do with that. Not yet.

But you knew it mattered.

“It’s so beautiful,” you said quietly, eyes tracing the soft, blurred brushstrokes. The colors bled into one another like a dream, all pale blues and gentle greens, and for once, you let yourself get lost in it.

“Yeah… it is,” Lando murmured beside you.

You smiled, about to agree—until you noticed something. He wasn’t looking at the painting.

You turned your head, heart skipping. “Lando?” you asked, teasing, trying to keep your voice light. “Are you admiring the art or… me?”

For once, you weren’t trying to scare him off. You weren’t trying to make him squirm or laugh or roll his eyes. You just wanted to know.

He didn’t miss a beat. “You’re the art,” he said softly.

And just like that—fuck.

Your breath caught in your throat. Something in your chest twisted, warm and sharp all at once. You didn’t have time to respond, didn’t even have time to think, before he stepped closer and pulled you in. His hands found your waist, steady and sure, and he guided you gently against him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You tried to step back—just a little, just enough to breathe—but the warmth of him, the way he held you like you were something fragile and important, made you stay. His forehead rested against yours, his breath brushing your skin, and when he spoke, his voice was low and quiet, somewhere between a tease and a promise.

“I meant it,” he whispered. “Every word.”

Your heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might shake loose from your chest. A full-on drumbeat, wild and loud, and you were almost certain Lando could feel it where your bodies touched. You swallowed, trying to steady your breath, trying to find something—anything—to say. But your mind was blank, spinning too fast to catch a single thought. All you could do was stand there, hoping the marble floor wouldn’t swallow you whole.

Lando didn’t move. He didn’t laugh or pull away or make a joke to break the tension. If anything, he pulled you in just a little closer, his arms tightening around your waist in a way that made your knees feel like jelly. His thumb brushed against your side, slow and gentle, like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. Like touching you had become second nature. Like he didn’t want to stop.

“I know you think I’m messing around,” he said softly, his eyes locked on yours. There was no teasing in his voice now. No smirk. Just something quiet and real that made your chest ache. “But I’m not.”

It felt like he saw through you and your stupid article.

You couldn’t breathe. Not properly. Your lungs felt too small for the air in the room.

“I like being with you,” he went on, his voice steady but warm, like he meant every word. “I like the way you talk about things you love. The way you pretend you don’t care, but you do. So much. The way you try so hard to scare me off—I don’t know why—when you’re actually…” He paused, exhaling a breath that sounded like a laugh, but wasn’t. It was something softer. Something a little scared. “…when you’re actually the best thing that’s happened to me in a long time.”

You stared at him, completely undone. Because this wasn’t part of the plan. This wasn’t fake. This wasn’t a bit.

And maybe—just maybe—you didn’t want it to be.

Your chest tightened, breath catching like it didn’t know whether to stay or go. The space between you shrank until there was barely any left at all—just the soft brush of his nose against yours, the warmth of him so close it made your skin buzz.

He didn’t rush. He didn’t push. He just stayed there, steady and quiet, like he was giving you time to run if you needed to. But you didn’t move.

“I know it’s fast,” he murmured, voice low and careful, like he was afraid too much noise might break the moment. “I know we’re chaos. But every time I’m with you… everything feels lighter. Better.”

His smile curved gently, not the usual cocky grin, but something smaller. Something real. Something that made your heart ache in the best possible way.

“I just want you to know that,” he said, like it was the simplest truth in the world.

Your mouth parted, maybe to argue, maybe to push back, maybe to tell him he had no right being this kind, this gentle, this quietly devastating to your heart—but the words never made it out. They caught somewhere in your throat, tangled in the rush of everything he’d just said, everything he was making you feel.

And then his hand moved—slow and certain—from your waist to your jaw, his palm warm against your skin. He tilted your face up to his, thumb brushing just beneath your cheekbone like he was memorizing the shape of you. His eyes flicked to your lips for the briefest moment—so quick it could’ve gone unnoticed, but you felt it. Like a spark, sharp and electric, running straight down your spine.

“Lando…” you whispered, barely more than breath.

That was all it took.

He leaned in and kissed you.

It was soft at first. So soft it startled you. You’d expected something cocky, something fast and reckless—something that matched the way he flirted like he was always in a rush. But this… this was different. His lips met yours with a kind of reverence, like he was asking a question he didn’t dare speak aloud. Like he was afraid to break whatever fragile thing had just bloomed between you.

You inhaled sharply against his mouth, heart stuttering in your chest.

He smiled into the kiss, just a little, like he could feel it too.

Then he kissed you again—deeper this time, slower, more certain. His fingers curled gently at the back of your neck, grounding you, pulling you closer, and you let him. You didn’t even think about stepping away. Because suddenly, being anywhere but here, in his arms, felt wrong. Like saying no to something you’d already started to want.

And in that moment, between the brush of his lips and the warmth of his hands, you stopped pretending it didn’t mean anything.

Because it did.

It meant everything.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, gripping tight like it was the only thing keeping you upright. Your legs had completely given up on being useful—soft and shaky beneath you, like they’d forgotten how to hold your weight. You weren’t sure if it was the kiss or the way he was looking at you now, like you were something precious, something he didn’t quite believe he was allowed to touch.

When he finally pulled back, just enough to breathe, his forehead rested gently against yours. He didn’t let go. His thumb brushed along your cheek, slow and careful, like he needed to feel you there, needed to make sure you hadn’t disappeared. Like he was grounding himself in the fact that this—you—was real.

“I’ve been wanting to do that since day one,” he whispered, his breath warm against your lips, his voice so soft it barely reached your ears.

You opened your mouth, tried to say something, anything—but your brain had short-circuited. All that came out was a quiet, stunned, “…fuck.”

He laughed, low and breathless, like he couldn’t help it. Like he was just as overwhelmed as you were.

“Yeah,” he murmured, eyes still on yours. “Me too.”

And somehow, that made it worse. Or better. You couldn’t tell. All you knew was that the world had narrowed to the space between your bodies, to the heat of his hands and the echo of his words, and the terrifying, wonderful truth that maybe—just maybe—you were falling for him.

────────────

DAY EIGHT

If you hadn’t figured it out by now, Lando had a thing for dragging you on these little “dates.” Yesterday it was the art gallery, all soft lighting and quiet glances. Today? Karting. Of all things. You couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at the track in front of you—loud, fast, chaotic. Not exactly your idea of romance. And definitely not what you expected from someone who once claimed to hate F1 with his whole chest.

“Karting? Didn’t you say you hate F1?” you asked, watching him crouch in front of you, fiddling with the helmet like he’d done it a thousand times before.

He looked up with that crooked grin of his, the one that always made your stomach flip in the most annoying way. “Since when does karting have anything to do with F1?”

You gave him a look. “Well… it’s basically the same thing.”

“Mhm,” he hummed, stepping in closer. His fingers brushed a loose strand of hair from your face, gentle and unhurried, before he slid the helmet over your head with a kind of ease that made your heart stutter. He was focused, careful, like this moment mattered more than it should’ve.

“Hold still, love,” he said softly, tugging the straps under your chin until they were snug. His hands lingered—just a second too long. Just enough to make you feel it. The warmth of his touch. The way his eyes didn’t leave yours. The way your breath caught, just a little, because suddenly this wasn’t just about karting anymore.

It was about him. And the way he made everything feel like more.

Once your helmet was on, Lando gave it a little tap like he was proud of himself, like he’d just built the thing from scratch. “Perfect fit,” he said, grinning. “Very aerodynamic. Almost like you were born for speed.”

You snorted, rolling your eyes. “You talk like someone who knows what he’s doing.”

He didn’t miss a beat. “I watched a YouTube video once.”

Of course he did.

You both made your way to the karts, the sound of engines buzzing in the background. As you climbed into yours, still adjusting to the snug seat and awkward helmet, Lando leaned in over your shoulder. His voice dropped to a whisper, warm and teasing right by your ear. “Try not to crash into a wall. It’s not a cute look.”

You tightened your grip on the wheel, shooting him a glare. “Try not to cry when I beat you.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Oh? Big words for someone whose parking skills are questionable at best.”

You gasped, full offense in your chest. “Take that back.”

“Nope,” he said, tapping the side of your kart with a smug little smile. “Hope you brought tissues.”

You stared at him, half ready to throttle him, half trying not to laugh. Your heart was racing, but not from nerves. It was the way he looked at you—like this was all just fun, just the two of you in your own little world, trading jabs and pretending it didn’t mean more than it did.

The track marshal waved you forward, and the low hum of engines filled the air, buzzing with anticipation. You tightened your grip on the wheel, heart thudding with a mix of nerves and excitement. This was supposed to be fun. Casual. Just another one of Lando’s ridiculous “date” ideas. But now that you were here, helmet snug, adrenaline kicking in, it felt like something else entirely.

You glanced over at him.

Lando sat in his kart like he belonged there—completely at ease, fingers resting lightly on the wheel, posture relaxed. His eyes sparkled behind the visor, and there was a smug little tilt to his mouth, like he knew something you didn’t. Like he wasn’t just playing pretend.

“Ready?” he called out, voice teasing, but steady.

You smirked, refusing to let him get the upper hand. “Ready for what? Watching you embarrass yourself?”

He laughed, loud and easy, like he wasn’t the least bit worried. “We’ll see about that, love.”

Then the lights blinked green.

You slammed your foot down and shot forward, the kart jolting beneath you as the track rushed up to meet you. Wind whipped past your helmet, the world narrowing to the blur of asphalt and the roar of engines.

But Lando?

He was already ahead.

Not by much—but enough. Enough to make your stomach drop. Enough to make you narrow your eyes behind the visor, suspicion blooming in your chest.

That wasn’t beginner’s luck.

That was control. Precision. Confidence.

Oh no.

He was good.

Too good.

Yeah. There was no way around it now.

He was definitely an F1 driver.

Of course he won. He was an F1 driver, after all—basically born in a kart. You didn’t stand a chance.

You climbed out of your kart with the slow, heavy steps of someone who had just lived through something tragic. Each movement was exaggerated, dramatic, like you were in a sad movie and the credits were about to roll. Across the track, Lando pulled off his helmet, all glowing skin and wind-swept hair, running a hand through it like he was in a shampoo commercial. Smug. Too smug. And way too good-looking for someone who had just crushed your fake racing dreams.

“Good race, love!” he called, his grin wide and full of victory. “You were—”

You sniffed. Loudly. On purpose.

He stopped mid-sentence. Froze like a deer in headlights.

“…really… something,” he finished, voice suddenly cautious, like he wasn’t sure if he’d just stepped on a landmine.

You wiped under your eye with the back of your hand, letting your shoulders slump. “I—I tried so hard…” you whispered, letting your voice tremble just enough to sound heartbreakingly sincere.

“Oh god,” he muttered, eyes going wide. “Are you crying?”

You let your bottom lip wobble. Just a little. Just enough. It was perfect. Dramatic. Oscar-worthy.

“I just thought…” you said, barely above a whisper, “maybe you’d let me win.”

Lando blinked, completely horrified. “Let you—why would I let—no, wait—did I hurt your feelings?”

He looked like he was about to spiral. And you? You were trying very hard not to burst out laughing.

Mission: Ick—almost complete.

You sniffed again, dragging it out for maximum effect. “I’m just… I’m just not good at anything,” you said, voice trembling like you were seconds from a full emotional collapse.

Lando’s face crumpled in panic. “Hey—NO—no, don’t say that,” he rushed out, stepping right up to you. His hands hovered near your arms, unsure if he should touch you, like you were a fragile vase he might accidentally knock over. “You were great. Seriously. Amazing. Like—like really fast!”

You looked up at him, eyes wide and full of fake misery. “You lapped me.”

“That was—luck!” he said quickly, grasping at straws. “The wind! Maybe your kart was cursed! Mercury’s in retrograde?”

You just stared at him.

He blinked. “I don’t actually know what that means,” he admitted, sheepish.

Then, slowly, he reached up and cupped your face in both hands, his thumbs brushing your cheeks like he was wiping away tears that didn’t exist. His touch was warm, careful, and way too gentle for someone who was supposed to be getting the ick.

“Please don’t cry,” he said softly, eyes searching yours. “I swear, next time I’ll go slow. Like, super slow. Snail slow. Painfully slow.”

You sniffed again, just to keep the bit alive.

“And you can—win?” he offered, voice so soft it could’ve melted steel.

You paused, letting the silence stretch.

Then he leaned in, whispering like it was a secret he’d never tell anyone else, “I’ll even cheer for you.”

God.

He was not getting the ick.

He was getting sweeter.

You crossed your arms and gave him a long, suspicious look. “You definitely drive like an F1 driver. That was… terrifyingly perfect.”

Lando just shrugged, all wide-eyed innocence and that annoyingly charming grin. “Me? Nah. Just natural talent. Pure luck.”

You squinted at him, not buying it for a second. “Luck? Really? Lando, come on. Who taught you to take corners like that?”

He tapped the side of his helmet like he was trying to summon a memory. “Hmm… let me think… Oh! There was that one time I went karting with Oscar. We were… uh… drunk.”

You blinked. “Drunk?”

“Yeah,” he said, waving it off like it was no big deal. “Totally hammered. But, you know, we got super competitive. Things got intense. I guess I picked up a few tricks.”

You stared at him, one eyebrow slowly rising. “So what you’re telling me is… all that flawless driving, the perfect lines, the ridiculous speed—that all came from a drunken karting night with Oscar?”

He nodded solemnly, like he was sharing some sacred truth, this ridiculous story about drunk karting with Oscar. Like he expected you to believe it. Like he was doing you a favor.

You narrowed your eyes, arms crossed. “Nah. You’re lying. That was way too smooth. Maybe you’re some underground racer. Or a secret karting champion. Or—I don’t know—an actual F1 driver.”

That made him freeze. Just for a second. Barely noticeable, but you caught it.

“I could be anything but an F1 driver, darlin’,” he said, flashing a grin that was trying a little too hard to be casual.

You stepped in, squinting at him like you were trying to read the fine print on his soul. “What are you, Lando?”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Just looked at you with that maddeningly soft gaze and said, “Yours.”

Your brain short-circuited.

“Excuse me?” you said, voice cracking slightly.

He shrugged, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “You asked. I answered.”

“That’s not an answer,” you said, trying to sound annoyed, but your heart was doing somersaults.

“It’s the answer,” he said, stepping closer. “Unless you’re saying I’m wrong.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “I—no—I mean—you can’t just say stuff like that.”

“Why not?” he asked, tilting his head. “Too honest? Too soon? Too charming?”

“Too dangerous,” you muttered, mostly to yourself.

He smiled, slow and warm. “Then maybe you should stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re two seconds away from kissing me again.”

You scoffed. “Please. You wish.”

“I do, actually,” he said, grinning. “All the time.”

You hated how fast your heart was beating. You hated how much you didn’t hate any of this.

You didn’t mean to.

Honestly, you didn’t.

You were just trying to get the last word, to throw him off his game, to win something after getting absolutely destroyed on the track. But then he said it—“Yours”—and looked at you like he meant it. Like he wasn’t joking. Like he wasn’t playing.

And suddenly, all the teasing and pretending and fake dating blurred into something else. Something real.

Your heart was pounding again, but not from nerves this time. From something warmer. Wilder.

You stepped in before you could talk yourself out of it, before your brain could catch up to your body. You reached up, curled your fingers into the front of his shirt, and kissed him.

It was quick at first—just a press of lips, soft and unsure. But then he kissed you back, and everything tilted. His hands found your waist again, pulling you closer like he’d been waiting for this, like he’d been holding back. The world around you faded—no engines, no noise, no track. Just him. Just this.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and a little dazed, he blinked at you like he wasn’t sure if that had actually happened.

“Okay,” he said, voice low and a little hoarse. “So… that was new.”

You smiled, heart still racing. “Yeah. Felt like the right time.”

He grinned, eyes shining. “You gonna cry again? Or was that just for show?”

You smacked his arm, laughing. “Don’t push your luck, Norris.”

But he was already leaning in again, and this time, you didn’t stop him.

────────────

DAY NINE

If there were awards for terrible ideas, you, Hanna, and Carol would’ve won first place without even trying.

The plan? Simple. Stupid. Dangerous. Carol would pretend to be your overbearing mother. Hanna, your clingy, dramatic sister. The goal? Scare Lando off. Because nothing made a guy run faster than a surprise family meeting—especially one that felt like a trap.

You had an article to finish. A deadline breathing down your neck. You didn’t have time for feelings or flirting or the way Lando made your heart do weird, fluttery things. This was supposed to be sabotage. A clean break.

“This is the dumbest plan we’ve ever come up with,” you groaned, flopping back onto the couch like the weight of your own chaos had finally caught up with you.

Because it was dumb. So dumb. And yet… you were still doing it.

“We need to scare him off today,” you said, trying to sound firm, like you still believed in the mission. “Men hate meeting the family. It’s a classic move.”

But even as you said it, your voice wavered. Because deep down, you weren’t sure you wanted him to run. You were already starting to give up on the whole sabotage thing. And maybe—just maybe—you were secretly hoping he wouldn’t get the ick at all.

Hanna snorted from across the room, not even trying to hide her amusement. “Lando doesn’t even hate commitment anymore, babe. I think he’s into you.”

You grabbed the nearest pillow and launched it at her. “SHUT. UP. This is sabotage, not a romcom.”

But your heart was already betraying you. Because if this was a romcom… you weren’t sure you’d mind.

Carol cleared her throat like she was about to deliver a line in a play. “So,” she said, voice full of drama, “should I greet him with ‘hello sweetheart, I’m her mother,’ or go full Italian and say, ‘mio caro, welcome to the family’?”

You nearly choked. “None!” you hissed, waving your hands like you could physically swat the words out of the air. “Just—act old. Like, tired. Like life has worn you down.”

Carol stared at you, completely offended. “I’m twenty-five,” she said, like you’d just accused her of being ancient.

“Well, today you’re forty-five,” you snapped, pointing at her like you were directing a scene. “You’ve lived through heartbreak. You’ve seen things. Put some misery in your eyes.”

She gave it a try. Squinted. Frowned. Tilted her head like she was trying to summon the weight of the world.

You stared at her. “Okay, no. Now you just look like you’re trying to remember if you left the oven on. Less constipation, more emotional exhaustion.”

From the couch, Hanna raised her hand like she was in school. “Wait—what am I again?”

“You’re the sister,” you said, pacing now, fully in chaos mode. “The older, more responsible one. You think he’s not good enough for me. You’re protective. Judgy. A little scary.”

“But I’m only two months older than you.”

“Age is a social construct,” you said without missing a beat.

Hanna nodded slowly, like she was accepting a sacred duty. “Right. I’ll be a bitch.”

You sighed, rubbing your temples. This was either going to be a disaster or the most brilliant plan you’d ever come up with. But deep down, you weren’t sure you even wanted it to work. Because if Lando didn’t run after this… maybe he was already too far gone.

Suddenly—

knock knock knock.

You froze mid-step. The room went silent. All three of you stared at each other like you’d just heard the cops at the door and were hiding something illegal. Which, in a way, you were. Just emotionally.

“Oh god,” you whispered, heart lurching. “He’s early. Positions!”

Hanna launched herself onto the couch like she’d rehearsed it. Carol, for reasons unknown, grabbed a wooden spoon and clutched it like a weapon—or maybe a prop. You didn’t have time to ask. You ran your hands through your hair, tried to calm your breathing, and forced your face into something that resembled calm.

Then you opened the door.

And there he was.

Lando stood on the doorstep, grinning like this was the best part of his day. His curls were slightly windblown, his cheeks pink from the cold, and in his hands was a tiny, slightly lopsided bouquet of flowers—wildflowers, by the look of them. Sweet. Thoughtful. A little chaotic. Just like him.

“These are for your family,” he said, holding them out with a smile so genuine it made your chest ache.

You took them, blinking.

Right. Sabotage.

You were supposed to be scaring him off.

So why did it already feel like you were the one in trouble?

“Come in, baby,” you said with a smile, stepping aside to let him through the door. Your voice sounded calm, sweet even—but inside, your nerves were doing somersaults. As soon as he passed you, you glanced down at the little bouquet in his hands.

Of course. Of course he brought flowers.

Tiny wildflowers, wrapped in brown paper, like something out of a movie. Thoughtful. Soft. Completely disarming. You hadn’t even told him to bring anything, and yet here he was, showing up like the perfect boyfriend. It made your heart ache in a way you didn’t have time to unpack.

Before you could say anything, Carol appeared from the hallway like she’d been waiting for her cue. She had that strange, overly warm tone she’d been practicing all afternoon, the one that made your skin crawl. “Oh,” she said, clasping her hands together. “You must be Lanny.”

You winced so hard your soul left your body. She really went with Lanny.

Lando blinked, clearly thrown for a second. You watched him process it, saw the flicker of confusion in his eyes. But then he smiled, polite as ever. “Um—yeah. Lando. But… Lanny works too.”

Too polite. Suspiciously polite. Like he was trying very hard to be respectful, even though he was clearly wondering what the hell he’d just walked into.

From the couch, Hanna crossed her arms and gave him a long, slow once-over, like she was inspecting a used car someone was trying to sell her. Her expression said I don’t trust you, and her body language screamed prove yourself.

You forced a smile, lips tight, heart pounding. This was already spiraling. You could feel it. The energy in the room was weird, the air too thick, the silence too loud. And Lando—sweet, unsuspecting Lando—was walking straight into the most chaotic trap you’d ever set.

And somehow, you were starting to think he might actually survive it. Worse—he might even like it.

You all settled around the table, the air thick with the kind of silence that only comes from people trying way too hard to act normal. Every movement felt exaggerated—Carol adjusting her chair like she was preparing for a job interview, Hanna crossing her legs with the stiff elegance of someone playing a role she didn’t fully understand, and you, sitting there with your hands folded sweetly in your lap, trying not to scream.

You turned to Lando with your best fake-girlfriend smile. “So, baby… this is my mom, Carol,” you said, gesturing toward her.

Carol immediately straightened her spine like she was about to launch into a lecture on interest rates and responsible homeownership. She even gave him a tight-lipped smile that screamed I’m watching you, young man.

“And this is my older sister, Hanna,” you added.

Lando didn’t even blink. “Nice to meet you,” he said warmly, nodding at both of them like this was the most natural thing in the world.

Not a single question.

He didn’t ask why all three of you looked like you could’ve graduated high school the same year. Didn’t ask why your “mother” was wearing baggy pants and sipping wine straight from the bottle like she was still in uni. Didn’t ask why your “older sister” looked the same age as you.

Nothing.

Hanna narrowed her eyes, clearly trying to find a crack in his calm. Carol raised one eyebrow, impressed despite herself.

And you? You just stared at him, waiting. Waiting for confusion. For hesitation. For even a flicker of doubt.

Carol folded her hands on the table, her whole body shifting like a switch had flipped. The goofy, over-the-top fake mom act vanished in an instant. Now she looked like someone’s actual mother—stern, composed, and ready to interrogate.

“So, Lanny,” she said, her voice calm but sharp enough to slice through steel, “what exactly are your intentions with my daughter?”

You nearly spit out your drink. The glass clinked awkwardly as you set it down, trying to recover. Across the table, Hanna’s head snapped toward Carol, eyes wide with shock. Oh, we’re doing this now? her expression said.

But Lando didn’t even blink.

He sat up straighter, folded his hands neatly in front of him, and nodded once—like he’d been expecting this moment. Like he’d rehearsed for it.

“I want to make her happy,” he said, voice steady. “Take her on dates. Listen to her. Be there when she needs me.”

Carol raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “That’s vague.”

You kicked him under the table, not hard, just enough to say abort mission, say less, this is a trap.

But he didn’t even flinch. Just kept going, calm as ever. “I’m not here to waste her time,” he said. “If I’m with someone, I’m serious about it.”

You stared at him, stunned. Because it sounded good. Too good. Like something out of a script. Like something someone would say if they were trying to win over your fake mom and your fake sister and maybe even you.

Which was ridiculous.

Because this was sabotage.

And he was supposed to be getting the ick.

Not… passing the test.

Hanna tilted her head, her eyes drifting from Lando’s face down to his wrist. You saw the moment it clicked—her posture shifted, her expression sharpened. She leaned back slowly in her chair, like a cat getting ready to pounce.

“So,” she said, voice light and casual, too casual, “what do you do for a living, Lando?”

You tensed. Here it came.

Lando didn’t miss a beat. “Uh—mechanic,” he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

You bit the inside of your cheek to keep from reacting. Here we go.

Hanna raised one eyebrow. Then the other. She nodded once, like she was pretending to accept the answer, like she was giving him a chance to walk it back. But then she lifted her hand and pointed straight at his wrist.

“Mechanic,” she repeated, slow and deliberate. “With a Richard Mille on his hand?”

The room went dead silent.

Carol’s eyes snapped to the watch like she’d just locked onto a target. Her wine glass paused mid-air. You could feel the tension rise like a wave, and your stomach dropped. You didn’t even want to look. You were too busy trying to remember if you could fake a power outage or pull the fire alarm.

Lando followed their gaze, looked down at his wrist, and—oh no. Oh no.

He smiled.

Not sheepishly. Not nervously.

He smiled like he was in on the joke. Like he’d been waiting for this moment.

“I got a promotion,” he said, voice smooth, eyes twinkling.

You wanted to scream. Or laugh. Or maybe both. Because he wasn’t cracking. He wasn’t sweating. He wasn’t even trying to lie better. He was just rolling with it.

And somehow, that made everything worse.

Because if he could survive this, what else could he survive?

Hanna stared at him like she was trying to solve a puzzle with missing pieces.

Carol stared harder, her eyes narrowing with the kind of focus usually reserved for courtroom cross-examinations.

And you? You stared like you were watching someone step directly into oncoming traffic—calm, clueless, and seconds from disaster.

“A promotion,” Hanna repeated, her voice slow and skeptical. “That lets you casually wear a watch worth more than my car?”

Lando didn’t even blink. He just shrugged, completely at ease. “Good year,” he said, like that explained everything.

Carol folded her arms, her tone turning sharp. “Mechanics don’t usually get that kind of promotion.”

He smiled, still polite, still maddeningly calm. “Well, I’m very good at my job.”

You jumped in before anyone could press further, your voice a little too loud, a little too fast. “He fixes… very important cars,” you said, nodding like that would somehow make it all make sense.

Hanna’s eyes drifted toward you, sharp and suspicious. “Like?” she asked, her tone light but loaded, clearly waiting for you to dig your own grave.

Your brain short-circuited. “Uh—broken ones,” you blurted, voice a little too high, a little too fast.

Lando, without missing a beat, nodded solemnly. “The most broken,” he added, like he was describing a noble calling instead of covering up a very obvious lie.

Carol narrowed her eyes at him, her expression unreadable. She didn’t say anything right away, just stared, like she was trying to see through him. You could feel the tension stretch across the table like a wire pulled too tight.

But then—she smiled.

Slowly. Sweetly. Dangerously.

“Well,” she said, her voice soft but edged with something sharper, “as long as you’re good to her.”

Lando didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. He met her gaze head-on, calm and steady.

“Always,” he said.

And just like that, the room shifted. Hanna leaned back, watching him with new eyes. Carol sipped her wine, still studying him, but no longer on the attack. And you… you sat there, heart thudding, unsure if you were impressed or terrified.

Because this was supposed to be a disaster. A mess. A sabotage mission.

But instead, Lando was passing every test like he’d seen the script ahead of time.

And honestly? It was starting to feel like maybe you were the one getting played.

That article you were supposed to be writing—the one about how to lose a guy in ten days?

Yeah. You might want to start drafting a new headline.

────────────

DAY TEN

The ball was everything Monaco always promised to be—loud with money, dripping in diamonds, and filled with people who wore confidence like perfume. The chandeliers sparkled like stars, the music was soft and expensive, and every guest looked like they’d stepped out of a fashion magazine. Even the air felt rich. It was the kind of place where people didn’t just dress up—they dressed to be remembered.

It was the tenth day. The final one. The last chance to do something big, something bold, something that would make your article worth reading (or even publishing).You were supposed to be wrapping this up with a dramatic exit, a clean break, a story that would make your editor proud. But instead, your stomach was in knots, and your heart was doing that annoying fluttery thing every time Lando looked at you.

You wore a yellow dress that dipped low in the back, soft and silky, the kind of thing that made you feel like someone else—someone braver, maybe. You stood beside Lando at the bar, close enough to feel the warmth of his arm against yours, trying to remember that this was all pretend. Just a game. Just a job.

“I’m going to the toilet, baby,” you said, your voice light, casual.

“Be quick,” he replied, smiling at you. But his eyes lingered, soft and warm, like he didn’t really want you to go.

You turned before you could let that look sink in too deep. Your heels clicked against the marble floor as you slipped into the crowd, trying to blend in with the glittering chaos around you. But your heart was racing. Your thoughts were loud. This was it. The final act. The moment you were supposed to pull the rug out from under him.

And yet, as you moved through the sea of strangers, all you could think was—what if you didn’t want to?

You paused behind the marble column, pretending to adjust your clutch, trying to look like you belonged there—just another guest in a sea of glitter and champagne. But then you heard it. A voice you recognized, light and casual, like he was talking about the weather.

“I guess Lando won the bet,” Oscar said.

Your heart stopped.

“What bet?” Carlos asked, sounding curious but clueless. You didn’t know him well—barely at all, really—but that didn’t matter. The words were already sinking in.

Charles answered before anyone else could. “We didn’t tell you? We made a bet. Lando had to pull a girl without using money, fame, or F1 status. Looks like he actually won.”

You froze. Completely.

Your breath caught in your throat, and for a second, the noise of the ballroom faded into a dull, distant hum. You stared at the floor, at the polished marble beneath your heels, trying to make sense of what you’d just heard.

That’s why he lied.

Every little thing—calling himself a mechanic, brushing off questions about his job, the way he always danced around the truth with that easy smile—it wasn’t just about keeping things simple. It wasn’t about privacy or nerves or even trying to be normal.

It was a game.

A bet.

“And now we have to get him a car,” Max added, his voice dry, like this was all just a joke to him.

You gritted your teeth, fingers curling tightly around your clutch. Your chest felt hot, like something was burning from the inside out. Embarrassment. Anger. Hurt. All tangled together in a way that made it hard to breathe.

This wasn’t just a stupid article anymore. This wasn’t just a fake relationship or a silly plan to scare him off. Somewhere along the way, it had started to feel real. And now? Now it felt like you were the punchline to a joke you didn’t know you were part of.

Catastrophic didn’t even begin to cover it.

Lando sat perched on a barstool, one hand wrapped loosely around a glass, the other resting on his knee. From a distance, he looked relaxed—cool, collected, like he belonged in a place like this. Like the ballroom, with its gold trim and glittering chandeliers, was just another familiar backdrop.

But if you looked closer, you’d see the tension in his jaw, the way his eyes scanned the crowd with quiet urgency. He was waiting for something. Or someone. And whatever calm he was pretending to wear, it didn’t quite reach his bones.

A girl approached, all soft smiles and fluttering lashes, her dress clinging in all the right places. She leaned in, voice syrupy sweet. “Hi… Lando, right?”

He turned to her, offering a polite smile that didn’t touch his eyes. “Yeah. Can I help you?”

She tilted her head, stepping a little closer. “I just… wanted to say hi. You’re amazing on the track.”

His lips pressed into a thin line. He nodded once. “Thanks.”

But there was no warmth in it. No charm. Just a quiet edge that made her falter. Her smile wavered as she caught the sharpness in his gaze, the way his shoulders were tight, like he was bracing for something to hit.

Because he was.

He wasn’t looking for attention. He wasn’t looking for praise. He was looking for you.

The girl leaned in close, her voice dropping to a whisper like she was about to share something scandalous. “Um… Lando, I don’t know if you’ve heard, but there’s this article rumor going around—How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days—and, well… apparently you’re the guy.”

Lando froze, his glass halfway to his lips. He didn’t blink. Didn’t move. Just sat there, completely still, like someone had hit pause on him. The words hung in the air, heavy and sharp. His jaw tightened, and when he finally spoke, his voice was low and cold, the kind of tone that made people instinctively take a step back.

“What?”

The girl hesitated, clearly realizing she’d just dropped a bomb. But it was too late to take it back. “She… your girlfriend writes it,” she said, eyes wide. “And, well, it’s everywhere. Everyone’s talking about it.”

Lando didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. The look on his face said enough. Confusion. Hurt. And something else—something darker. Like all the little things that hadn’t made sense were suddenly clicking into place. Every weird moment. Every awkward excuse. Every time you’d acted just a little too strange, a little too dramatic. It all made sense now.

So that’s why you were so cringe every time.

It hadn’t been nerves. It hadn’t been quirks. It had been a setup. A game.

And he’d been the punchline.

Your eyes found his across the crowded ballroom, and for a moment, everything else faded. The music, the laughter, the clinking of glasses—it all blurred into the background. You didn’t think. You just moved. So did Lando. Like magnets pulled by something too strong to fight. Fury burned in your chest, tangled with confusion and something that felt dangerously close to heartbreak. His expression mirrored yours—tight jaw, stormy eyes, like he was holding back a thousand questions and not a single answer.

And then, suddenly, you collided.

Your body bumped into his, and the glass in his hand wobbled, nearly spilling. His arm shot out, catching you before you could stumble back. Lando’s hands landed on your waist, steady and warm, and for a second, you hated how natural it felt. How easy it was to fall into him, even now.

“Watch it,” you snapped, but your voice cracked halfway through. It didn’t come out sharp like you wanted. It came out small. Shaken.

“I think you should watch it,” he shot back, his voice low and tight. There was anger there, yes—but also something else. Hurt. Disbelief. Like he didn’t know whether to yell or just walk away.

You swallowed hard, trying to keep your voice steady. “We really need to talk.”

Lando didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just stared at you like he was trying to see through every version of you he’d met over the past ten days. “Yeah,” he said, his voice edged with something dark and raw. “I was about to say the same thing.”

Your stomach dropped the moment it hit you. Oh no. He knew. Somehow, he’d found out. Maybe someone told him. Maybe he saw it himself. Either way, the truth was out—and everything was about to fall apart.

You didn’t think. You just moved. Heart pounding, you pushed through the crowd, slipping between glittering gowns and sharp tuxedos, barely noticing the startled glances as you passed. The heels of your shoes clicked too loudly on the marble floor, echoing your panic. You felt like you couldn’t breathe, like the walls were closing in, like the whole ballroom was watching and you were seconds away from crumbling.

“Y/n—wait!” Lando’s voice cut through the music, sharp and clear, full of something that made your chest ache. Anger. Confusion. Hurt.

But you didn’t stop.

You shoved open the double doors and stepped out onto the terrace, the cold night air slamming into you like a slap. It was quiet out here, the noise of the party muffled behind you, but your thoughts were still loud. Too loud. You wrapped your arms around yourself, trying to hold it together, trying to figure out what you could possibly say to fix this.

And then he was there.

Lando stepped out after you, his tux slightly rumpled, his hair a little messy, his eyes burning with something fierce. He looked like he’d run after you without thinking, like he couldn’t not follow.

“An article?” he said, voice low but sharp, each word hitting like a punch. “Really?”

You froze, caught mid-step, your chest rising and falling with shallow breaths. There was no point pretending anymore. No more games. No more fake smiles. He knew. And now, you had to face the wreckage.

There was no dodging this. Not anymore.

“I… I didn’t mean for it to—” you started, but the words felt thin, useless, like paper in a storm. Your hands were shaking, your voice barely holding together. You could see the way he was looking at you—like he didn’t recognize the person standing in front of him. And maybe he didn’t. Maybe you didn’t either.

“Didn’t mean for it to what?” Lando snapped, stepping closer. His voice wasn’t loud, but it was sharp, cutting through the cold night air like a blade. “To humiliate me? To make me a joke?”

You flinched. He wasn’t yelling, but the hurt in his voice was louder than anything else. It was in the way his jaw clenched, in the way his eyes searched yours like he was still hoping this was all some kind of mistake. But it wasn’t. You knew that. And now he did too.

“Look, Lando…” you tried again, your voice cracking. “It wasn’t supposed to mean that much. I never thought I’d actually—”

But the words caught in your throat. You couldn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t say what you were about to say, because it would make everything worse. Or maybe it would make it real. And that was even scarier.

He stared at you, his face unreadable now, but his voice gave him away. Low. Cold. Wounded. “All I was for you… was just fun? Just content for an article?”

You looked down, unable to meet his eyes. The guilt pressed down on your chest like a weight, heavy and suffocating. You wanted to explain, to tell him it hadn’t been like that, not really. That somewhere along the way, the lines had blurred and your heart had gotten involved. But how could you say that now? How could you expect him to believe it?

Lando stepped closer, his movements sharp, his eyes locked on yours. The air between you crackled with tension, thick with everything unsaid. His voice came low and tight, each word laced with disbelief and something deeper—something raw. “You wanted to lose a guy in ten days,” he said, jabbing a finger toward you like it hurt just to point.

“Congratulations. You just lost him.”

Then he turned, walking away without waiting for a reply, his shoulders stiff, his steps fast and angry. Like he couldn’t stand to be near you for another second.

But you weren’t done. Not even close.

You had every right to be mad too.

“Lost you?” you shouted after him, your voice rising, cracking under the weight of everything you’d been holding in. “God, Lando, have I ever even had you?!”

He stopped. Froze mid-step. You saw the way his back tensed, the way his hands curled into fists at his sides. Slowly, he turned to face you again, his expression unreadable, but his eyes—his eyes were burning.

“I know about the bet,” you said, your voice shaking now. “I know you’re an F1 driver. I know you lied. And I know you only did it for a car.”

There it was. The truth. Ugly and loud and hanging between you like smoke.

Lando’s jaw clenched. His voice, when it came, was tight and bitter. “Yeah. It was a bet,” he said. “But the difference is… I actually liked you.”

The words hit you like a punch. You blinked, your throat tightening. “But you used me,” you whispered, barely able to get the words out.

“And you used me,” he said, steady and cold, not flinching. “So don’t act like you’re the only one who got hurt.”

You didn’t argue. You couldn’t. Because he was right.

You’d both played the game.

And now, neither of you was winning.

────────────

A WEEK LATER

You were back where it all began—your office, quiet and still, the soft hum of your laptop the only sound in the room. The screen glowed in front of you, the article open and waiting. You stared at it, reading the words again and again, as if one more pass might somehow soften the edges, might make it feel less like a confession and more like a story. But no matter how many times you scrolled, the truth stayed the same. It was all there. Every messy, complicated, too-honest piece of it.

It had been a week since you’d seen Lando. A week since the ball, since the shouting, since the look in his eyes that still haunted you when you closed yours. You hadn’t spoken. Not a single text. Not a single call. And even though you told yourself it was better this way, that it was cleaner to leave it alone, the ache in your chest said otherwise. You missed him. More than you wanted to admit. More than you thought possible. The last time you’d laughed without thinking, the last time you’d felt light, had been with him.

Now, all you felt was tired.

You glanced up from the screen, your fingers hovering over the keyboard. Hanna sat cross-legged on the couch, flipping through a magazine she clearly wasn’t reading. Carol sat on her place, arms crossed, watching you with that quiet, knowing look she always wore when she was waiting for you to catch up to your own feelings.

“So…” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “You’re sure I should just… publish it?”

They didn’t answer right away. But they didn’t need to. You already knew what they’d say. They’d been with you through all of it—through the planning, the chaos, the unraveling. And now, they were here for the ending. Whatever that turned out to be.

Hanna leaned back in her chair, fingers steepled under her chin, that familiar teasing spark dancing in her eyes. “Honestly? You’re overthinking it,” she said with a shrug. “It’s perfect. Every awkward moment, every ridiculous thing you did—it’s so you. That’s what makes it work.”

Across the room, Carol took a slow sip of her coffee, her expression calm but certain. “It’s raw,” she said. “Brutally honest. People are going to love it.”

You let out a soft, bitter laugh, the sound catching in your throat. It wasn’t about people. It never had been. You didn’t care if strangers liked it, or if it went viral, or if your editor called it brilliant. That wasn’t the part that mattered.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, the cursor blinking like it was waiting for your heart to catch up with your hands. “What about him?” you asked, your voice quieter now, almost afraid to say it out loud. “Do you think he’ll… read it?”

Hanna and Carol exchanged a look, the kind that said they’d already had this conversation without you. Hanna leaned forward, her voice confident, certain. “Oh, he’s going to read it. Even if he doesn’t want to, Oscar will shove it in his face. You know how those two are—he won’t let it slide.”

Carol gave a soft laugh, shaking her head. “Yeah. And honestly? He deserves to know. All of it.”

You let out a dry, bitter laugh, the kind that didn’t reach your eyes. “He probably hates me by now,” you said, staring down at the blinking cursor. “So he’s going to hate this stupid article too.”

Hanna rolled her eyes and waved a hand like she was brushing the thought away. “Oh, shut up,” she said, not unkindly. “If he hates you, then he’s a complete idiot. And let’s not forget—you have every right to hate him too.”

You didn’t answer. Just sat there, the weight of the article pressing down on your chest. Every word you’d written felt heavier now, like it carried more than just your voice—it carried your guilt, your fear, your heart. You stared at the screen, at the story that had started as a joke and turned into something else entirely. Something real.

You took a shaky breath, your fingers curling slightly against the edge of the keyboard. And then, so quietly you weren’t even sure they heard you, you whispered, “But I don’t hate him. I never did. I never will.”

You froze, fingers hovering just above the trackpad, heart thudding in your chest like it was trying to warn you. The cursor blinked on the screen, waiting. The article stared back at you, every word a piece of your heart laid bare. It didn’t feel like a story anymore. It felt like a confession.

Carol leaned over from her spot by the window, her coffee cradled in both hands, a sly smile tugging at her lips. “Are you gonna press that damn publish button, or should I do it for you?”

You let out a shaky laugh, more breath than sound, and leaned back in your chair, staring at the screen like it might blink first. “Fine,” you said, your voice soft but steady. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

You took a deep breath, held it for a second too long, then exhaled and clicked.

The screen flickered once. Then again. And just like that, it was done.

The article was live.

Hanna clapped gently, her eyes bright with something between pride and nerves. “Well,” she said, her voice light but careful, “that’s it. It’s out there.”

You nodded slowly, the weight of it settling over you like a blanket. There was no going back now. The truth was in the world. And all you could do was wait to see what came of it.

────────────

Lando was stretched out on Oscar’s couch, one arm slung over his eyes, the other hanging off the side like he couldn’t be bothered to move. His phone sat untouched on the coffee table, screen dark, buzzing every now and then with messages he had no interest in reading.

The TV was on, playing something loud and fast, but he wasn’t really watching. He hadn’t been watching anything for days. Not really. His mind kept circling back to that night at the ball—your voice, your face, the way it all fell apart in seconds. He’d gone over it so many times he could recite every word, every look, every breath. But no matter how many times he replayed it, the ending never changed.

The door slammed open without warning.

Max and Charles.

Of course it was.

“You’re gonna shit yourself,” Max said, grinning like he’d just won the lottery.

Oscar nearly dropped his drink. “Jesus, Max—maybe try saying hello like a normal person?”

Charles didn’t say anything at first. He just stood there, arms crossed, eyes locked on Lando like he was waiting for something. Lando sat up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face, already tired of whatever this was.

“Have you read it yet?” Charles asked, his voice calm but pointed.

Lando frowned. “Read what?”

Max stepped forward, practically bouncing with excitement. “Y/n’s article,” he said, like it was obvious. Like it was the only thing anyone could possibly be talking about.

The room went still.

Lando’s jaw clenched, his whole body going rigid. He looked at the phone on the table like it had betrayed him. “I don’t want to read it,” he said quietly, but there was steel in his voice.

Not because he didn’t care—but because he cared too much. Because he wasn’t sure he could handle seeing your words, not if they were cruel. Not if they made everything worse. Not if they confirmed what he was already afraid of—that none of it had meant anything to you.

Max let out a dramatic scoff, flopping onto the armrest of the couch like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Oh, come on. You’ve been sulking for a week. At this point, reading it is basically self-care.”

Oscar didn’t argue. He just pulled out his phone and started unlocking it, already scrolling. “Mate… seriously. You should read it. Just once.”

Charles stood by the window, arms crossed, his usual easygoing expression replaced with something quieter, more thoughtful. “At least hear what she actually said,” he added, his voice calm but firm.

Lando sat there, jaw tight, staring at the floor like it might offer him a way out. He shook his head slowly, then looked away, his voice low and flat. “I already know enough. She used me. I used her. End of story.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow, not buying it for a second. “Fine,” he said, shrugging. “Then we’ll read it. Without you. And we won’t tell you a single word.”

Lando gave a dry laugh, trying to play it cool. “I think I’ll survive.”

But the way his eyes flicked toward the phone, the way his fingers twitched like they wanted to reach for it—yeah. No one in the room believed him. Not for a second.

“Alright then,” Oscar said, tapping his phone with a shrug, his tone light but loaded. “Your loss.”

He cleared his throat and began to read, voice casual at first, like it was just another article, just another story. Nothing personal.

Lando didn’t move. He sat stiffly, arms crossed, eyes locked on the blank TV screen like it might offer him a way out. He told himself he didn’t care. That it didn’t matter what you’d written. That he already knew how the story ended. But the lie cracked fast—thirty seconds in, maybe less.

“…oh my god,” Max muttered, leaning forward, eyes wide.

Charles let out a low laugh, shaking his head. “Okay, that’s actually funny.”

Oscar’s brow furrowed as he kept reading, his voice slowing. “Wait—she planned that? We were so blind.”

Lando’s jaw clenched, the muscle ticking as he stared harder at the screen, refusing to look at them. But the words were starting to slip through anyway, each one landing like a pebble in his chest.

Max let out a sharp snort. “That explains the wedding talk. Mate, she was terrorizing you on purpose.”

“I knew it,” Lando muttered under his breath, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Oscar glanced up from his phone. “You say something?”

“Nothing,” Lando snapped, already rising from the couch, his movements sharp and restless. He didn’t want to be here anymore. Didn’t want to listen to them read your words out loud like they were just some juicy gossip. He didn’t want to care.

But then Oscar kept going, voice steady, eyes still on the screen. “She says you’re the funniest guy she’s ever met.”

That stopped him cold.

Lando froze mid-step, then turned so fast he nearly sent the coffee table skidding across the floor. His heart was pounding, his chest tight, and he hated how much that one line got to him. Hated how it cracked something open.

“Give me that damn phone,” he said, voice low and rough, hand outstretched.

He didn’t want to hear it secondhand anymore.

He needed to see it for himself. Every word. Every line. Every truth you’d finally decided to tell.

Lando snatched Oscar’s phone from his hands, his fingers moving fast, almost frantic, as he scrolled through the article. The room faded around him—Max’s smirk, Charles’s quiet stare, even the low hum of the TV—all of it disappeared as the words filled the screen. Your words.

Each sentence landed like a punch to the chest. He read about the plan, the chaos you’d orchestrated, the way you’d tried to push him away with every awkward moment, every ridiculous stunt. And then he hit the part that stopped him cold.

I set out to see if I could make a guy run for the hills in ten days. I planned every awkward moment, every cringe-worthy interaction, every little sabotage. And yet… against all logic, all strategy, I failed spectacularly. Somewhere along the way, I realized that I wasn’t trying to make him leave—I was falling for him.

His breath caught. He kept reading, slower now, like the weight of it was too much to carry all at once.

I ended up losing the only guy I ever loved. The one who made me laugh when I wanted to cry, who somehow made stupidity seem charming, and who didn’t flinch when I tried my hardest to push him away.

His throat tightened. He could barely see the screen anymore, but he kept going.

To Lando: if you ever read this, know that it was never just a game. I love you, and I miss you. And I’m still hopelessly yours.

He exhaled, the word slipping out before he could stop it. “Fuck.”

Oscar shifted beside him, quiet for once. “Yeah.”

Max cleared his throat, trying to cut the tension. “So… you’re not mad anymore, right?”

Lando didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

He was already on his feet, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair, movements sharp and certain. His heart was pounding, but for the first time in days, it wasn’t from anger. It was something else. Something that felt a lot like hope.

“I wasted a week,” he said, voice thick but steady. “I’m not wasting another minute.”

Lando drove like the world was on fire behind him and you were the only thing that could put it out. His hands gripped the wheel tight, knuckles white, heart pounding harder than the engine beneath him. He didn’t think—he just moved, every red light a suggestion, every turn a blur. He had no plan, no speech, just one thought echoing louder than the rest: don’t be too late.

By the time he pulled up to your building, his chest was tight, breath shallow. And then—just as he was about to kill the engine—the garage door began to rise.

Your car rolled forward.

Of course. You were leaving.

“Fuck,” he muttered, panic flaring hot in his chest.

Without a second thought, he yanked the wheel and swung his car sideways, cutting across the entrance and blocking your path. Your tires squealed as you hit the brakes, headlights flashing in protest. For a second, everything was still—just the hum of engines and the sharp thud of your heart in your ears.

“What the hell—” you started, throwing your door open and stepping out, squinting into the glare. You didn’t recognize the car at first, didn’t recognize him. You thought it was just some reckless stranger, another Monaco idiot with too much money and not enough patience.

“Are you insane?!” you shouted, storming forward, hands planted on your hips. “Move your car!”

And then he stepped out.

Lando.

Calm. Steady. Like he hadn’t just broken every traffic law to get here. Like he hadn’t spent the last week unraveling. He looked at you like he’d been holding his breath for days and had only just remembered how to breathe.

“Is it true?” Lando asked, his voice low, almost careful.

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

He took a step closer, eyes searching yours. “That I’m the funniest guy you’ve ever met?”

A breath hitched in your throat, but you didn’t look away. “I meant every word, Lando.”

He swallowed hard, his eyes locked on yours like he was bracing for something that might break him. His voice was quiet, but it carried all the weight of the past week, every sleepless night, every unanswered question.

“Even that you love me?”

The words hung in the air, and suddenly the whole world felt like it had gone still. The city behind you—its lights, its noise, its constant motion—faded into silence. It was just the two of you, standing in the hush of the night, hearts exposed.

You let out a soft, unsteady laugh, the kind that trembled at the edges. “Unfortunately?” you said, voice catching. “Yeah. Even that. Especially that.”

And just like that, something in him gave way. His shoulders dropped, the tension he’d been carrying for days finally slipping off. He looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were real, like he’d been holding his breath and only now remembered how to let it go.

“I read it,” he said, barely above a whisper. “Every word. I kept waiting for the part where you’d pull back. Where you’d say it was just a joke, just part of the article. That none of it was real.”

You shook your head slowly, your voice steady now, even as your heart thudded painfully in your chest. “I stopped pretending a long time ago, Lando. I just didn’t know how to tell you.”

He stepped in slowly, like every inch mattered, like he was afraid one wrong move might send you running again. His voice was soft, but steady, full of something real. “I was angry,” he said. “And yeah, I was hurt. But I never stopped wanting you.”

Your chest tightened, the ache blooming all over again. “You hurt me too,” you said, the words quiet but sharp, because they still lived under your skin.

“I know.” He nodded, eyes never leaving yours. “And I’m sorry. For the bet. For not telling you the truth. For not fighting harder.”

You didn’t answer right away. You just looked at him, really looked—at the way his jaw was set, the way his eyes didn’t flinch, didn’t waver. You searched for hesitation, for some sign that he didn’t mean it. But there was nothing.

Lando’s hands found your face with a tenderness that made your breath catch, his thumbs brushing softly along your cheekbones like he was memorizing the shape of you. His eyes searched yours, wide open, no walls left between you.

“I love you,” he said, barely above a whisper—but there was nothing small about it. It was steady, certain, like he’d been carrying it for days and finally had the courage to let it out.

Your heart thudded so hard it felt like it might crack open. You smiled, tears stinging your eyes, and nodded. “I love you too.”

And for a moment, the world just… stopped. The city lights blurred into soft halos, the hum of traffic faded into silence, and time itself seemed to pause, giving you this one perfect breath.

Then he leaned in.

The kiss was gentle at first, hesitant, like you were both afraid to break the spell. But it deepened quickly, all that longing and ache and missed time pouring out between you. It was messy and real and everything you hadn’t known you needed until now.

When you finally pulled apart, your foreheads rested together, breaths mingling, hearts pounding in sync. Lando smiled, that crooked grin that had undone you from the start. “So,” he murmured, “you really are hopelessly mine, huh?”

You laughed, the sound light and full of something that had been missing for far too long. “Absolutely,” you said, no hesitation.

The ten days were over. The game was done. But this—this was where the real story began.

© verstarris 2025

babs radio ! I’d love to thank you guys for the insane support & love I’ve been getting since HTLAGI10D part one dropped. Simply thank you for all the kind comments and especially numbers of likes! 💟 Now I finally can fully work on the tennis au I was talking about. I’m so excited but also nervous, I want this fic to be more “serious” than all my previous ones, so hopefully it will come out as good :) so yeah!

The room is bare: table, chair, a space heater in the corner that clicks as it cycles. Mirror glass on one wall. Four men around you: a skull in black cloth; a cap and beard; a grin like a knife someone forgot to sheathe; warm eyes that could talk you down from a rooftop or into a war.

“Name,” says the skull, voice a low burr that lives in your sternum. A gloved thumb steers your jaw, neither gentle nor unkind, just deciding.

You meet empty eyes and say nothing.

Soap sets a water bottle on the table with a loud little click, just for theater. “C’mon, bonnie. We can be friendly about it. Drop location- where?”

“Far away from you,” you say, and the smile you give with it makes him laugh even as Price’s mouth doesn’t move.

Gaz drags a second chair close, sits with his knees open, forearms on his thighs like he’s here to talk you down from a ledge. Ozone and clean cotton and a steadiness that smells like heat. “You’re shaking,” he murmurs.

“I’m cold,” you lie.

“Mm.” He tips two fingers toward the heater; someone shifts it closer until the front of your shins glow. He watches your shoulders loosen despite yourself and doesn’t say he saw it.

Price’s voice is patient tide. “We already have your name. We have your handler’s face. We have the phone, and the burner you thought we didn’t see. Give me the string on that SIM, and you don’t have to rot in a room like this.”

“Mm, tempting,” you say lightly. “But no. Try better than that.”

Leather sighs near your cheek when Ghost leans in. His thumb taps once at the hinge of your jaw, like setting a metronome. “Last chance.”

“If it’s my last chance,” you say, “I’ll use it to ask a question.”

A beat. “Ask.”

“You smell clean and sterile,” you tell him, because it’s true and because it knocks the room a degree off its axis. “Did the world do that to you until it stuck, or did you choose it?”

Silence.

They don’t give you time to enjoy the small victory.

“If she wants better, let’s give it to her. Mask her,” Price says, and a blindfold drops like mercy and cruelty married: the thick cloth pulled down over your eyes so the world disappears while your mouth is left to the air. Foam cups settle over your ears and the room collapses into hush. Your breath is your own weather. The chair. Your wrists. The press of zip ties. Hands you can’t see.

The dark is soft as velvet.

Silence sits on your ears like a held breath.

Blindfold snug. Noise canceling cups pressed to your head in a hush so complete even your heartbeat feels distant, tidal. The chair carries the ghost of movement- weight kneeling between your knees, warmth blooming at your shins, the faint drag of fabric as someone shifts.

A thumb brushes your hipbone and you jolt, breath caught, the sound swallowed by foam around your ears. You can’t hear, but you can feel someone chuckle, the warmth of it ghosting across your skin as sure as sunlight.

“What are you doing?” You demand, your own voice muffled to your ears.

Fingertips skating over ribs, pausing at the dip of your waist, following the trembling rise and fall of your stomach. Each touch is deliberate, patient. The warmth in your chest has nothing to do with the heater.

Calloused pads sweep outward from your navel, mapping you like coastline, patient and sure. The lack of sound turns every stroke into thunder. You feel the tiny eddies of air his hands make; you smell him- the ghost of gun oil he’ll never quite wash out.

A hand moves the headphones just enough for you to hear, “Who are you protecting?” Voice like warm honey poured over steel, close at your left shoulder.

You grit your teeth and say nothing.

“Mm.” A breath touches your ear, not quite a kiss. “Let us help you loosen your tongue.”

Hands slide behind your knees and the chair scrapes a half inch closer to a body you hadn’t realized was there. The hood catches light and the world inside it goes briefly warmer, the dark turning amber for a second.

“Tell us about the message format,” the first one says again, patient as tide. “Who holds the second key?”

You tip a shoulder, a shrug that tries for bored and lands somewhere near defiant. “Pass.”

“You don’t get passes.” Glasgow accent, closer now; the air shifts; you know exactly where his mouth is. “Not here.”

He ‘tsk’s in disappointment and the cups snap back onto your ears, cutting off the noise.

The zip ties snap and you attempt to surge forward, hand scrambling to the blindfold, but multiple sets of hands grab and yank you forward, knees colliding with the floor before you’re pulled upright, lower abdomen hitting the edge of the table, palms flat on cold steel. Your shoulders roll; a hand settles between your blades and restraints are snapped into place around your wrists.

You test the restraint and find no give. Your pulse spikes a degree.

Your knees are nudged wider, boot to calf, then fingers at the tendon of your thigh.

A gloved thumb returns to your jaw. Your pulse is a tell you cannot hide. The leather cups drag heat up the sides of your head; the world is a warm, sealed dome; every eddy of air across your stomach lands like a strike.

The left cup lifts just a crack, just long enough to let the room drip in. The brim’s voice curls at your temple. “Where’s the drop?”

“Florence,” you say.

Breath ghosts your neck. “She’s cute when she lies.”

The cup seals. Silence rushes back. A thumb strokes once under your jaw and you flush under blindfold and hate that they can see it.

A hand drags from the inside of your knee up, pauses, goes down again; your calves prickle. The quiet makes anticipation bigger than thought. Then a hand reaches around your hip, palm spread hot over your belly, and thick fingers work your buttons loose and your pants down.

“Wait- “ you rasp, heat flooding the highs of tour cheeks that has nothing to do with the electric heater. Sweat pools on your brow and you swallow nothing on a dry throat.

When the first touch lands where you need, you don’t hear it. You feel it like weather shifting- warm lube spread with careful fingers, slow circles to avoid the shock of cold. Two pads ride your slick seam; thumb hovers above your clit like a planet in orbit.

A finger sinks in, unbearably slow. Your lips part around a sound the foam devours. He curls. Retreats. Returns. Patient as tide. The other hand pins your hip, holding you open with the steadiness of a promise. He refuses the speed you chase. Your thighs tremble; metal at your wrists.

A mouth finds the inside of your knee, kissing heat into skin no one writes about but him. Then higher. Teeth scrape, not enough to break, enough to mark time. Breath skims the place you ache. Gooseflesh races up your sides under the hood. Your hips lift; a palm presses them back down.

The second finger stretches you. There’s a bright, brief ache, then relief. He curls just right and you forget the taste of your own name. Your knees try to close; an arm sets them wider. Honesty, again.

The head of a vibrator finds your clit making your jolt into the table. The toy follows and simply lives there: steady pressure, no mercy, no pattern to ride. Your muscles lock. The world narrows to that single insistence and the measured knuckle-deep drag inside. The brink surges like a wave-

The pressure vanishes. Fingers leave. Nothing.

You choke on the absence. The table creaks with your useless lunge.

The left cup lifts. Warm breath at your ear. “Greedy,” a voice says, smiling. “Again.”

The cup seals.

They work you like a team that knows the same map. Mouth replaces fingers, broad tongue flattening and dragging, then pointed flicks that make your calves twitch, then a slow seal around your clit that makes your spine bow. A hand keeps you open; another strokes your ribs like counting prayer beads. You climb; they remove the rung; you shake around nothing and it feels like drowning on dry land.

They do it again.

And again.

You lose the ability to number it. Your world is a loop- edge, denial, edge higher, denial harder- until the dark behind the blindfold feels oceanic and the silence in your ears is storm-light. You don’t even realize you’re sobbing until the fabric turns soggy.

The cups peel away as one. Sound returns all at once- heater’s tick, leather creak, breath you didn’t know was ragged, the wet obscene music of your body. A thumb presses to the corner of your mouth, finds spit you didn’t realize you’d let spill.

“Open,” someone says, and you do, because the word is habit laid in your bones. Something firm taps your tongue- pads of fingers, not cock, filthy and kind. You taste yourself. You hear a soft curse, pleasure pulled through teeth.

They move you without loosening you. The table skids. A shoulder wedges between your knees as a body settles low. Fingers spread you and a mouth devours you like he’s been patient too long. The seal of him on you is devastating. He sucks and you jerk; a palm holds, the other hand slides back inside and fucks you like argument. You are noise. You are a live wire.

The gloved thumb taps your jaw once, twice. The toy kisses your clit again and simply stays. The rhythm inside you changes- ruthless now. You break for it- helpless, wrecked-

“Not yet,” murmurs the brim, very close to your mouth, and the toy clicks off.

You tear a sound out of your own throat. The mouth at your core laughs against you, wrecking you with the vibration alone.

You would beg with your mouth but you don’t have to. Your body says it for you- hips trying to run, thighs trying to close. A palm cups your throat and directs you back into place. You hold. You shake. They watch you not fall apart and count that as victory.

When a cock pushes into you, it’s with the inevitability of weather. Hot and blunt, sinking until you are full and then staying, nothing but breath and your shock in the shared air. The hand at your sternum slides under, lifting you into the angle he wants; your shoulders roll; your spine finds a bow that makes you a rungless ladder he climbs and unbuilds at once.

He fucks you slow enough to make you crazy. Then he fucks you like he’s calibrating a scope- boring in, finding the stroke that blurs the edges of your mind, setting it and running it without flinching. Your wrists burn against the ties. Your thighs quake against the table. The mouth at your throat finds your pulse and hums approval into it.

The cups lift. Sound floods. “Where’s the drop?” Ghost.

“N-nowhere,” you say, a wreck, and it earns you a hand over your mouth, palm sealing you into your own breath as the toy returns to your clit. Pressure. Pace. The exact angle. The exact want.

You howl, moan, sob, bucking against the table, the thick heavy body of Ghost behind you.

You come like a fuse reaches a charge. Your body locks; your voice breaks under his hand; the table skids a fraction with the force of you. Ghost curses; heat floods you; his hand at your throat squeezes a heartbeat tighter at the feel of you pulling him under, milking him, until Ghost is flooding your own walls with cum. The room is breath and heat and the stutter of control giving way.

Ghost stays buried for one long, shuddering breath, then backs out slowly, the drag obscene, your muscles fluttering in aftershock. Fingers that aren’t his smooth along your ribs, gathering you back to the edge of the table. The left ear cup lifts a fraction; a voice you can’t place, low and almost kind, slips in like steam: “Where’s the drop, love?” Soap.

Silence swallows the answer you don’t give. The cup snaps back into place.

His body takes Ghost’s place, thighs bracketing yours, hips heavier, the angle different. A slick palm cups between your legs, presses the mess of cum and slick back in with a sweep of two thick fingers that press in, makes your spine bow. He replaced his fingers with a heavy cock, nudges, thick and blunt, and you gasp into the hand that clamps over your mouth. Overstim sparks up your nerves like dry brush catching fire. He slides in slow, relentless, holding your shocked whimper into his palm.

The toy returns to your clit, just a kiss at first, then settling, steady and merciless. Your whole body jerks; your wrists scrape the ties; the palm over your mouth catches the broken noise and presses it back into you until you taste it.

“Drop,” Soap murmurs by your ear. “Give it to us.”

You shake your head. The hand at your jaw tilts you anyway, directing your refusal like posture- chin up, throat bared, oxygen rationed by a thumb’s patient weight. Soap sets a working pace, measured, cruel, each stroke a lesson in what your body does when it isn’t allowed to come down. The toy holds you to the wire. Your vision blooms white behind the blindfold. You tear at the table with your fingertips and the restraint holds.

The second climax hits quicker, meaner- your muscles seize, rippling around him; the toy pins it open. Soap grinds deep and spills with a breath punched out of him, groan swallowed against your shoulder. He retreats on trembling thighs, hand dragging down your belly like he hates leaving.

Boots scuff. A laugh you know only by the way it warms your cheek leans over the back. Two fingers tap your temple, jaunty. “Atta girl. We’re not done.”

Another weight replaces him before your pulse can find center, leaner frame, sharper hips, the way he lines you up like a shot. No announcement. Just a wet slide of your slick across you, a quick rub to spread it, then he’s inside with a single decisive push that has you choking on your own breath. He doesn’t move at first. He lets you feel the stretch all over again. Lets your aftershocks spike. Lets the toy buzz a steady threat against nerves that feel flayed and new.

“Where,” the brim-straight voice (Gaz) asks, calm enough to be infuriating, “is the drop?”

You try to spit another city. It melts on your tongue when he starts to move, short, brutal strokes that refuse you rhythm. He times his thrusts to the vibrator’s pulse like a man conducting your undoing: pressure…strike…pressure…strike. Your body wrings the answer out of itself and offers up only a keen.

“Mm.” His mouth at your ear might be smiling. “Not Florence, or Chester, then.”

Gaz fucks you through a third, your legs trembling so hard the table chatters under you, the toy turning the crest to a razor that cuts and cuts. He rides it until your hips give and you slump against the restraints, empty of defiance and full of everything else. He leaves you shaking and slick and open, cock sliding free with a wet, defeated sound that makes somebody curse softly like prayer.

You’re certain you can’t take another. That certainty lasts the length of a breath when the restraint on one hand clicks free and you slump, right before you’re flipped onto your back.

Big hands- new hands- gather your knees, fold them up to your chest, tie biting deeper as your thighs meet your ribs. A forearm slots under your lower back and lifts until your hips tip, the angle obscene. The head of him presses and your mouth opens around nothing. He goes slow, all the way, until the stretch burns, then settles heavy as a promise.

The left cup lifts again. Cedar and smoke curl into the hollow of your ear. “Last chance, sweetheart,” the voice rumbles, almost tender. Price. “Where’s the drop?”

You babble, sniffle. Sob. Incoherent words drip from spit slick lips.

Price starts to move and it’s not fast. It’s deep. He takes the bottom of you, every stroke a long drag that drags the whine out of your chest, that makes your toes curl and your fingers go numb. The toy returns at the lowest setting and it’s somehow worse- softer, persistent, making your clit throb with a need that feels like panic. He doesn’t speed up. He just holds you open and claims space inside you until your body stops pretending it has lines he won’t cross.

“Easy,” someone murmurs, palm smoothing your sternum, guiding your breath. “Take him.”

You do. You can’t not. He feeds you inches like hours, stroking back that far, pushing in this deep, again and again until the fourth builds slow and monstrous under your skin. The palm leaves your chest to hold your jaw, thumb rub-rub-rubbing the hinge like a metronome. The toy climbs one notch. You break like a tide going out- silent, shaking, tears hot under the blindfold, the orgasm rolling through you so long it scares you.

He groans and gives you everything he has left, hips grinding the aftershocks deeper, hand at your throat flexing once in wrecked pride. The spill is hot, messy, inexorable. He stays inside. All of them stayed. It’s a fact your body recognizes as ownership and goes pliant for.

Hands- many, careful- undo the ties. The toy clicks off. The blindfold peels slow. Sound returns in layers: your ragged inhale, someone’s soft laugh, the heater’s steady click, a “there you are” breathed against your temple. Light smears into focus. The mirror ghosts into four men you’ve known by touch the whole time- grin soft and satisfied, warm eyes blown wide, skull mask tipped to hide a mouth you can imagine, brim dipped to shadow a look that says held the line.

The timer on the wall chirps twice and dies at 00:00:00. Laswell’s silhouette cuts the doorway, clipboard in hand, that small, pleased smile. “You never broke,” she says, and Pride is a fifth set of hands in the room, unseen but felt.

They don’t let you go far. Water is pressed to your mouth. A jacket lands on your shoulders. A forehead leans to yours. A gloved knuckle taps your jaw where the metronome was. The laugh at your cheek returns, softer now: “Right. Food, water, bath. Not necessarily in that order.”

Your throat works around a hoarse laugh and all the yeses you didn’t give in that room stack up in your bones like a promise: again.