It’s late — past midnight — the kind of quiet that hums. Rain hits soft against the window, and you’re half-asleep on the couch when the TV suddenly clicks off. Then silence.

You frown. “Did we forget to pay the bill or something?” From the kitchen, Lando laughs. “Wow. Zero faith.” You can barely see him, just his outline in the dark — tall, lazy, shirtless, still holding a glass of water. “It’s a power cut, babe,” he says, walking toward you. “Storm probably killed the line.”

You groan, pulling a blanket over your legs. “Perfect. I was just about to watch something.” He grins, kneeling down beside the couch. “You’ve got something better to look at right here.” You squint at him through the dark. “You really never turn it off, do you?” “Not when I’ve got an audience.”

He’s so close you can smell the faint mix of his cologne and rain, his skin warm even in the chill. He touches your thigh lightly, tracing patterns through the blanket. “Kinda cozy though, isn’t it?” he murmurs. You look at him — really look — the way the lightning flashes across his face through the window, catching his jawline, his eyes flicking down to your lips.

“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t what?” he says, already smiling.

Then the thunder rolls, and he kisses you. It’s slow at first, soft. But when the next flash of lightning hits, you can see the look in his eyes — a little darker, a little hungrier.

“Lando,” you breathe, barely audible. “Mm?” he hums, still tracing your jaw with his thumb. You can’t tell if it’s the storm or him that’s making your heart race like that.

Another strike lights up the room. He smirks, whispering against your lips, “Guess we’ll have to find a way to pass the time.”