You weren’t even supposed to be there.
Your friends dragged you to the pier for one of those “spontaneous summer nights” that never actually feel spontaneous. You wandered off toward the arcade, needing a breather from the endless couple selfies and overpriced lemonade.
The photo booth was glowing like it was calling you. Retro, grainy filters, 2 euros a pop. Perfect for a little moment of peace.
You slipped inside, dropped the coin, and just as the screen lit up—
Someone dove in after you.
“Shit—sorry. Just act normal,” the guy hissed, pulling the curtain closed like he was being chased by the FBI.
You blinked. “Um—hello?”
He was breathing heavy. Black hoodie up, cap low over his curls. Tall. And very much invading your personal space.
“I’ll be out in 30 seconds, swear. Just hiding.”
“…From?”
“Group of kids. They figured out who I am. I need, like, a second before I get mobbed again.”
Your eyes narrowed. “Wait. Who are you?”
The screen flashed. 3… 2… 1.
Click. First frame: you staring at him, completely confused. Second: him flashing a finger to his lips, like shh. Third: you bursting into a laugh, because what the actual hell was this. Fourth: him grinning too, and okay, dimples.
The strip printed with a little wheeze.
He snatched it first, glanced at it, then handed it to you with a shrug. “Honestly? Might be the best set I’ve taken all year.”
You squinted at him. “Do I know you?”
He smiled. Slow. Like he was used to the question.
“Depends,” he said. “Do you watch F1?”
You froze. Because no way.
“Wait… you’re—”
“I’m Lando,” he offered, casual like it wasn’t a big deal. “But I’m kinda off-duty tonight. So if we could keep the screaming to a minimum, that’d be cool.”
You stared at him. “I’m still charging you two euros.”
His laugh was instant. “You know what? Fair.”
He pushed the curtain open slightly to peek outside. Still chaotic. The group of teens was hovering by the racing games now, phones out like it was the met gala.
Lando ducked back in. “Yeah, no. We’re trapped. If I go out there now I’m gonna get flash-mobbed by twelve-year-olds in Red Bull merch.”
You tried not to laugh, but failed. “And what? You figured hiding with a complete stranger in a photo booth was the better plan?”
“Well,” he grinned, leaning back against the wall like this was totally normal, “you looked non-threatening.”
You raised an eyebrow. “That’s not the compliment you think it is.”
“I meant it in the nicest way,” he said, dramatically placing a hand over his heart. “You’ve got, like, a trustworthy face.”
“Oh wow,” you deadpanned. “Am I your emotional support stranger now?”
“Honestly? Maybe.”
You looked at the little photo strip in your hand. His hoodie brushed your arm. The machine was still glowing faintly, like it hadn’t recovered from the chaos either.
“So what’s the plan then?” you asked, tilting your head at him. “Hide in here all night?”
“Unless you’re kicking me out…”
You just smirked. “Well, I am still waiting for my two euros.”
And the way he looked at you then—playful, a little exasperated, and totally unbothered by the world outside—made you think you might just let him stay.