It's 2:27 in the morning. The house is plunged into an almost unreal calm, disturbed only by the discreet sound of the fan whirring in the corner. You're lying on the sofa in the living room, lights dimmed, Netflix still paused on the screen. The others have been out for hours - your brother and his new buddies, whom you met recently at a local karting competition. You haven't tried to keep up with them: too many people, too much noise.

You're about to go upstairs to bed when you hear muffled laughter from behind the front door. Clattering, footsteps, awkward whispers. They're home. Your brother goes first, laughing, followed by another boy, more discreet but with a slightly hesitant gait.

And that's when you see him.

Lando Norris. At last, you recognize the face. The videos, the interviews, the networks. But he's different in person. Younger, more natural, a little disheveled. His denim jacket slides off his shoulder and his gaze catches yours as soon as he crosses the threshold into the living room. He stops short, a slightly clueless smile on his lips, cheeks flushed with a mixture of alcohol and heat.

"Ah. Hi..." he says, his English accent soft but fuzzy.