You know he’s here.

Even with thousands of people screaming, even with the spotlight in your eyes and your heartbeat echoing through your ears like a drum line—you know. He’s out there. Somewhere in the VIP section, probably rocking that dumb hat and that even dumber grin.

And that’s exactly why you pick this song.

You step up to the mic, legs glittering under the stage lights, heels clicking like a warning. The band cues in. Bass heavy. Tempo slow but teasing. Your voice dripping honey and fire all at once.

You smirk, eyes scanning the crowd like a secret message. “This one’s for a certain boy in the front row… who thinks I haven’t noticed him yet.”

The crowd loses it.

Lando? He’s stunned. Fully caught. His friends are elbowing him like bro that’s you, and he’s sinking into his hoodie, but not before you catch the way he’s looking at you.

Like he’s been hit by a truck. Or Cupid. Or both.

You start singing—sultry, teasing, your usual kind of chaos laced in every lyric—

“Have you ever tried this one?..”

You toss a wink toward his direction because yeah, you know exactly who you’re talking to, and you swear you see him blush just a little.

Like he’s been listening on repeat.

Like maybe he likes being called out.

After the song, you blow a kiss toward the section he’s in and strut offstage like you didn’t just publicly ruin his life in the best possible way.

And when you check your phone in the dressing room later?

Lando

so when do i get the private concert?