The Monaco night sparkled beneath the skyline, the streets glistening from a fresh drizzle. The afterparty was in full swing—neon lights, champagne flutes clinking, the bass-heavy music drowning out the sound of your heartbeat. Or at least, trying to.

Because Lando Norris was standing too damn close.

You felt it before you even turned around. The heat of him, the presence that sent a ripple through your chest. When you finally did, he was already looking at you—lazy smirk, ocean-blue eyes, damp curls still a little messy from the post-race exhaustion. His black button-down hung loosely on his frame, the top few buttons undone, revealing a teasing glimpse of tanned skin and collarbones.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” he murmured, leaning in slightly, voice just loud enough over the music.

Your breath hitched. “Have I?”

His eyes flicked down to your lips, and for a moment, it felt like the world slowed. The club, the people, the music—all of it faded into white noise.

“Yeah,” he said, his voice smooth, teasing. “And I don’t really like being ignored.”

Your stomach flipped. Lando wasn’t just a friend—not really. Not with the way he looked at you like this, like he was calculating every possible move before making his own. Not with the way his touch lingered longer than necessary, fingertips ghosting over your wrist now as he reached for the drink in your hand, stealing a sip without breaking eye contact.

You swallowed hard.

“You’re trouble,” you whispered, lips curving despite yourself.

He smirked, shifting impossibly closer. “Yeah? Then why do you keep coming back?”

You exhaled sharply, but before you could answer, his fingers brushed against your jaw, tilting your face up slightly. The music pulsed around you, but all you could hear was the rush of your own heartbeat.

Lando’s thumb traced along your cheek, slow and deliberate. “Tell me to stop,” he murmured.

You didn’t. You couldn’t.