The music pulses like a heartbeat — low, steady, seductive.

Bodies move around you in waves, flashes of light catching on glittered skin and half-finished drinks. You’re leaned against a table near the edge of the rooftop, fingers wrapped around a glass, eyes scanning lazily across the crowd. No expectations tonight. Just rhythm and release.

Then you feel it — someone watching.

You look up. Eyes meet.

Across the room, under shifting violet lights, stands Lando Norris.

He’s not surrounded. Not dancing. Just looking. Chin tilted down slightly, curls damp at his temple, one hand resting in his pocket, the other holding a glass he hasn’t sipped in minutes.

He doesn’t smile. Not yet.

Just stares — like he’s trying to figure you out without words.

You turn back toward your drink, but you can feel it. His gaze lingers.

Two songs later, he’s closer.

Not beside you. Not obvious. Just near enough for his presence to crawl under your skin.

You step toward the dance floor. Don’t look back.

But he follows.

You move. Not for him — but maybe a little because of him. The beat climbs, your body finds it, and then— he’s there.

Not touching. Not yet. His chest near your back. His breath at your ear. A hand — light — at your waist.

The space between you disappears.

No words. Just heat. Fingers grazing your side. You sway in sync like you’ve done it a hundred times before.

He leans in, finally. Mouth near your neck. Not a kiss — just a breath, a maybe.

Goosebumps.

Then he pulls away. Just enough. Meets your eyes again. And smirks.

Trouble.

You already know.