Evenings in Monaco had a certain softness to them — city lights reflecting on the water, the sound of mopeds somewhere down the street, and that ocean breeze that slipped through half-open windows. It was familiar, comforting. The kind of night that made you want to stay still for a while.

Lando had texted earlier: movie night? same as always? And it was always the same. Same couch, same snacks, same banter that sounded casual but felt heavier lately — like both of you were pretending not to notice how close you sat.

He opened the door wearing one of his worn McLaren hoodies, sleeves pushed up, hair still damp from a shower. “Hey,” he said, stepping aside so you could come in. You smiled a little. “Hey.”

The movie started, but neither of you paid much attention. You leaned back into the corner of the couch, legs tucked underneath you, while Lando half-watched the screen, half-watched you. The glow from the TV flickered across his face, and for a few quiet minutes, neither of you said a word.

“You’re gonna fall asleep before the first plot twist,” he murmured eventually, smirking. “You always say that,” you replied, voice low, “and then you’re the one snoring.”

He laughed softly. “Fair.”

At some point, your head ended up resting against his shoulder. You weren’t even sure how it happened — one minute you were shifting, the next, you were just there. His body went tense for a second before he relaxed, letting his arm rest loosely along the back of the couch, his fingers barely grazing your hair.

The movie kept playing, but it faded into background noise — just a hum behind the sound of his breathing and the slow rhythm of your heartbeat.

By the time the credits rolled, it was well past midnight. You both stared at the screen a little longer, not really wanting to break the moment. Lando was the first to speak, voice quiet. “You can stay, if you want. It’s late. And I don’t feel like letting you walk home this time.”

You turned to look at him, searching his face. He wasn’t teasing — not this time. “Yeah,” you said finally. “Okay.”

He grabbed a spare blanket from the armchair, tossing it over the couch before hesitating. “You take the bed,” he said quickly. “I’ll crash here.”

You smiled faintly, shaking your head. “We’ve shared worse than a bed, Lando. Calm down.”

That earned a soft laugh out of him — the kind that made his shoulders drop a little, tension slipping away. So you both ended up in his room. You curled up under the covers, facing opposite directions but close enough that you could feel the warmth of him behind you.

In the dark, he whispered, “You still awake?” “Yeah.” A pause. “Good,” he said, his voice low and rough from tiredness. “’Cause if you started snoring already, I’d have to push you off the bed.”

You let out a quiet laugh. “You wouldn’t dare.” He shifted slightly, and you felt the mattress dip closer to your side. “I might,” he murmured, teasing — but the edge of his voice gave him away.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward this time. It was warm, heavy, full of things neither of you said.

Then, almost without thinking, his fingers brushed against yours under the blanket — not by accident, not quite on purpose either. You froze for half a second before your pinky hooked around his.

He didn’t move away.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The glow of the city slipped through the curtains, painting the room in soft gold, and all you could hear was the faint sound of his breathing beside you — steady, careful, like he didn’t want to break whatever moment you’d just stepped into.

And that’s how it stayed — quiet, uncertain, but closer than before.