Mexico City, late October. Warm air, burnt-orange sunsets, and the low hum of chaos everywhere — the kind that makes your heart race even when nothing’s happening yet.

You shouldn’t have come. That was the deal — no public appearances, no cameras, no “who’s that girl with Lando Norris?” headlines. But when he called and said “just come, we’ll keep it quiet,” you couldn’t say no.

So now you’re here, tucked away in a sleek hotel, pretending to be just another guest. Except you’re not. You’re his guest — the one hidden two floors up, in the room with his hoodie on the chair and his things beside yours in the bathroom.

The day starts early. He’s gone by seven, cap pulled low, sleeveless shirt on, saying something about golf with his mates. You watch him tie his shoes — tan arms flexing, skin already sun-warmed — and you can’t help but smile.

He grins back like he knows. “Don’t miss me too much,” he teases, voice still rough from sleep. You toss a pillow at him. “Don’t lose.” “Never do,” he says, leaning down for one last kiss before slipping out with a quiet click of the door.

a few hours later

The air-conditioning hums low in the background, the sound mixing with the muffled traffic outside — Mexico City glowing orange against the night.

You’re sprawled across the hotel bed, hair messy, his hoodie swallowing you whole. The TV plays some random telenovela you’re not even watching, but you don’t bother changing the channel. It’s been hours since he left — padel, golf, meetings — and every update from Quadrant’s stories made you miss him a little more.

Then the door clicks. He’s finally back.

Lando steps in, hat backwards, cheeks still flushed from the heat, a lazy grin on his face. His shirt sticks slightly to his chest — and he looks so unfairly good you almost forget to be annoyed. He drops his bag, toeing off his shoes, and sighs like he’s been running for days.

“Hey, baby,” he murmurs, walking over and pressing a kiss to your forehead. You hum, not moving. “How was golf?” “Won.” “Padel?” “Lost. But the others cheated.”

You smile, but your tone shifts — a little pouty, a little soft. “I wanna come tomorrow.”

He stops mid-unpacking, glances at you. “Babe…” “Don’t ‘babe’ me,” you mutter, rolling onto your stomach. “I’ve been here all day. I could just sit in the car or something. No one would even notice me.”

Lando laughs under his breath, crossing to the bed. “You know that’s not true.” You twist around to look at him. “You act like I’m some kind of criminal.” He grins, sitting beside you and brushing his fingers down your back. “No. Just… my favorite secret.”

You roll your eyes, but your chest warms anyway. “It’s stupid. No one even suspects anything.” “That’s exactly why it’s working,” he says, leaning closer. His voice drops, teasing. “Besides, if you came, I wouldn’t be able to focus.”

You bite your lip, pretending not to smile. “You think too highly of yourself.” He laughs, kissing the corner of your mouth. “No, I think too highly of you.”

You groan, trying to hide your blush. “That was disgustingly smooth.” “Worked, didn’t it?”

He flops down beside you, hair still damp, smelling like sunscreen and the faint bite of tequila someone probably made him try earlier. You tuck yourself under his arm, tracing the small tan line near his wrist.

The city outside hums, the race weekend alive and loud — but up here, it’s just you two. Hidden. Quiet. Untouchable.