The music thumped low and sultry, the scent of sea air tangled with expensive cologne and Prosecco. You were leaning on the glass railing, sun setting behind you, drink in hand, wearing the kind of dress that made people turn twice—and then again.

Pietra had brought you. Max’s birthday, small crowd. She’d whispered, “Lando will be here. Be nice.”

You rolled your eyes. You knew who he was. Lando Norris—sharp-tongued, cocky smile, annoyingly photogenic. He was exactly the type you usually avoided. Until he wasn’t.

You felt him before you saw him—like some gravitational pull shifting the air.

Then his voice, low and cocky, right beside your ear. “You’re not on the grid, but you look like pole position to me.”

You turned, raising an unimpressed brow. “That’s the line? Really?”

He just grinned, eyes dragging over your face, pausing briefly at your mouth like he was already picturing something else entirely. “Did it work?”

You sipped your drink. “I’ll let you know after you tell me your name.”

He placed a hand to his chest, mock wounded. “Wow. That hurts. You really don’t know who I am?”

You gave him a smirk, leaning in a little. “I do. I just wanted to hear you say it.”

His eyes lit up like you’d just revved his engine. “Touché.” He offered a hand, warm and ringed with those stupid friendship bracelets. “Lando.”

You took it, letting your fingers linger. “Nice to meet you, Lando.”

He didn’t let go immediately. Neither did you.

From there, the night blurred—drinks, laughter, body language that got bolder by the hour. You’d lean in to whisper something and his eyes would drop to your lips. He’d press his hand to the small of your back to guide you through the crowd and let it stay a second too long. At one point, you reached for a drink and your hands brushed—his knuckles grazing your wrist like it meant something.

“You always look at people like that?” you asked, breath catching.

“Only when I want to ruin them,” he murmured back, smirking into his glass.

Max passed by with a knowing look. “You two good?”

Lando barely looked at him. “Great, mate. Don’t wait up.”

You laughed, a little breathless. He made you feel dizzy, like you were already past the point of no return.

At some point, you ended up on one of the velvet couches—him sitting way too close, his knee brushing yours, his voice low and gravelly. Your flirty comebacks came quicker now. You were matching him beat for beat, and he loved it.

“You’re trouble,” he said.

“So are you,” you replied.

He leaned in slightly, lips just shy of your cheek, voice hot and teasing. “We should find out who’s worse.”