You just wanted a shower.

It was late, you’d been on your feet all day, and the Monaco heat mixed with fireproof suits and pit lane emergencies had your body aching. You’d barely glanced at the hotel keycard the front desk gave you when you stepped off the elevator.

Room 904. Swipe. Click.

You stepped inside, dropped your bag, kicked off your shoes—and then froze.

The room was… weirdly tidy. Too tidy. And also, definitely not empty.

“You okay there?” The voice came from behind you—low, accented, laced with amusement.

You spun around fast, heart in your throat.

Lando Norris was standing near the window in black joggers, shirtless, towel draped around his neck. Hair damp. Eyes wide. Trying very hard not to laugh.

“I—I think I’m in the wrong—” you started.

He held up a hand, a crooked grin forming. “Nah, stay. I get so few surprise visitors. This is kinda fun.”

You grabbed your bag from the floor, mortified. “The hotel gave me the wrong room. I’m sorry, seriously, I—”

“Wait,” he interrupted, “You’re the medic, right? You patched up that Mercedes rookie earlier—what was it? Heat stroke or ego?”