The morning light poured in, pale and gold, brushing across the vanity like it was staged just for you. A silk robe slipped off your shoulder as you leaned into the mirror, cool eye patches clinging under your eyes, jade roller moving in practiced strokes.

“Always start with skincare,” you said softly, the words meant for your audience but sounding like a secret.

The serenity lasted exactly three seconds before the bedroom door creaked and footsteps dragged closer. Lando appeared behind you, shirtless, hair wild from sleep, holding a single black sock like it had personally wronged him.

“Babe… have you seen my sock?” His voice was hoarse, morning-rough, and he squinted like even the sunlight was too much.

You didn’t look away from the mirror, still rolling your cheekbone. “Try the chair, maybe the floor, maybe the void you throw all your clothes into.”

Instead of leaving, he leaned against the doorframe, watching. Then, curiosity tugging at his mouth, he drifted closer.

“What are you even doing?”

You lifted the jade roller slowly, deliberately, and before you could explain, he plucked it out of your hand and pressed it against his forehead—completely backward, pressing instead of rolling.

“Ah, perfect… glowing already,” he teased, his reflection smirking in the mirror.

You shook your head, reaching for your serum, ignoring him. Except he wasn’t going anywhere. He crouched beside you, studying each step with exaggerated seriousness. When you tapped serum into your skin, he copied, slapping his cheeks with far too much force.

“Gentle,” you warned.

“I am gentle,” he muttered, rubbing like he was sanding wood.

By the time you smoothed moisturizer into your skin, he had already pulled one of your sheet masks from the drawer, ripping it open like it was a bag of crisps. The dripping fabric nearly slid out of his hands.

“This is… disgusting,” he groaned, holding it up with two fingers like it was alive.

You sighed, turning toward him. “Give it here before you ruin it.”

He obeyed instantly, shuffling closer like a guilty kid. You unfolded the mask with practiced fingers, smoothing the creases before pressing it gently to his face. He scrunched his nose, lips twitching beneath the cool fabric.

“Hold still,” you murmured, smoothing it over his jaw, thumbs brushing along his cheekbones. He tried not to grin, but when your fingertips lingered just a little too long, his eyes crinkled at the corners.

“You’re enjoying this,” he accused, muffled under the mask.

“Of course I am,” you teased. “You’re finally letting me make you look presentable.”

He patted the mask clumsily, but you caught his wrists. “Nope. Hands off. You’ll ruin it.”

So he sat there, obedient for once, watching you in the mirror as you rolled concealer beneath your eyes. Every few seconds, you reached out—tucking the mask tighter around his chin, smoothing the edges by his temples, fussing over him like he was another step in your own routine.

The quiet that followed wasn’t really quiet—just him humming tunelessly through the sheet mask, occasionally crossing his eyes at his own reflection, or tugging at the edges until you pushed his hands away again. Every time you reached up to fix it, he grinned like he was winning some game you didn’t know you were playing.

By the time you finished, hair sleek, outfit sharp, robe tossed aside, he was still beside you—sweatpants, mask slightly crooked because he refused to sit still, lips shining with balm you’d applied for him.

He tugged the mask off with a dramatic flourish, tossed it in the bin, and admired himself in the mirror. “10/10 experience,” he declared. “I’m basically glowing. Might start my own skincare channel. Lando Norris: beauty

You turned, unimpressed. “And who exactly is watching that?”

He smirked, running a hand through his messy hair. “You. You’d watch every video. Probably even leave a like.”