max streaming is never a chill thing. but today? it’s worse. he’s doing a full-on apartment tour for his chat. with a gimbal. like he’s some kind of netflix documentary crew.

lando had forgotten that max planned to stream today. probably because his brain had been completely taken over by one thing—or rather, one person.

you.

it’s your anniversary. two years. and you’re here. his girl. his everything.

you’ve spent the whole day doing a whole lot of… not much. well, not much talking, anyway.

kisses in the kitchen. a quick, heated makeout on the bathroom counter. that lazy, giggly mess in his room that almost knocked a lamp over. basically: wherever you’ve been, you’ve ended up pressed together, whispering, laughing, unable to stop touching, kissing, stealing little moments like you’ve just fallen in love all over again.

right now?

you’re in the laundry room. lando had pulled you in for a second, just to grab your waist, maybe kiss you once, twice. except now you’re sitting on top of the washing machine, arms around his neck, his hands braced on either side of your hips, your mouths tangled together like the world outside doesn’t exist.

it isn’t messy. it isn’t desperate. it’s just… you two. that soft, magnetic kind of closeness that won’t quit.

you don’t even hear the door open.

“alright chat, this is where lando definitely hides all his snacks or something—” max’s voice.

you freeze.

lando blinks. you gasp softly against his mouth.

he turns his head just enough to see max standing there in the doorway—camera pointed right at you, face a mix of horror and bro really?! energy.

“oh my god.”

max whips the camera away but it’s too late. the chat is going feral. alerts going off, notifications, screams.

“bro. this is a stream. this is a live stream. people saw. people are seeing.” max is fully spiraling.

lando rests his forehead on your shoulder, groaning. you bury your face in your hands, half-laughing, half-dying of embarrassment.

“you weren’t even supposed to go in there!” lando shouts, voice muffled.

“you weren’t supposed to be having a full-on rom-com moment on top of a washing machine!!” max fires back.

“it was one kiss!” lando protests.

“mate, i saw tongue!”

you can’t help laughing now, your legs still loosely around his waist, his hands still braced beside you. he presses a quick kiss to your temple and mutters, “guess the anniversary’s officially public now.”

from the other room, max’s voice again.

“alright chat, lando owes me therapy. moving on!”

the door closes. the damage? already viral, probably.

and lando? he looks back at you, brushing hair from your cheek, smiling.

“so… laundry room round two or…?”

you smack his shoulder.

fair.