You’re in the middle of folding laundry when the front door swings open—without a knock, without a text. You don’t have to look up to know it’s her.
“Don’t even start,” she says, already toeing off her shoes and dumping her bag by the door. “I’m not here for coffee. I’m here to babysit.”
You blink, frozen with a half-folded shirt in your hands. “Babysit?”
“Yes. For Theo. Because you,” she points directly at you, “have a date. In exactly one hour.”
You open your mouth, but she’s already in Theo’s room, lifting your three-year-old into her arms like he’s a cloud. He shrieks with delight at the sight of her, forgetting whatever game he was halfway into.
“I didn’t agree to this,” you call, trailing after her.
“Well, now you have,” she says, setting Theo on the couch and tossing him a stuffed dinosaur. “And don’t try the 'I have a child' excuse on me again. Lando said he doesn’t care. Actually, he said Theo’s great. Which, by the way, is the nicest way to say ‘I want to see you even if I have to play with Paw Patrol toys for hours’."
Your heart skips at the sound of his name.
You’ve seen him more times than you can count—at birthdays, barbecues, last-minute beach days. Always charming. Always good with Theo. Too good. You’d catch him holding a juice pouch for your son like it was second nature, or laughing at a joke Theo didn’t really make, just to see him smile.
He’d asked you out—more than once. And you’d always had an excuse. Always Theo. But it was never Theo. It was you. You, being afraid to let someone else in. Especially someone like him.
“Besides,” your friend adds from the kitchen, now rummaging for snacks like she lives here, “You can always say no to a second date if it sucks. But you’re going.”
You lean against the wall, arms crossed, heart hammering. “I don’t even know what to wear.”
Her head pops out from behind the fridge. “You’ve got an hour. Tick-tock.”
You watch her sit cross-legged on the floor with Theo, building a castle out of blocks. Your son laughs like he hasn’t in days, like he hasn’t noticed that his father hasn’t shown up again for the second weekend in a row.
You disappear into your room and stare at your closet, silently cursing the universe—and Lando Norris—for being so patient.
One hour later, there’s a knock on your front door.
You open it to find him standing there, hands in his pockets, hair still damp like he just got out of the shower five minutes ago. He smiles—soft and warm and a little nervous.
His eyes drift over your outfit, just for a second, before returning to your face. “You came out,” he says, voice low. “I was starting to think you never would.”
You shrug lightly. “I got kicked out of my own house.”
He grins, takes a step closer, and says quietly, “Well, tell your friend thank you for me. I’ve been waiting a long time to take you somewhere.”