It’s weird how birthdays feel different when it’s his. Like you woke up already smiling, already soft, already a little nervous — because today isn’t just November 13th. It’s Lando’s day.

Your boyfriend, your menace, your favorite person on earth… is officially 26.

The morning is quiet — Monaco sunlight dripping through the curtains, warm and forgiving, painting long gold streaks across the sheets. You blink awake before he does, your body folded against his in the way it always is: his chest at your back, his arm around your waist like muscle-memory, his breath warm against the back of your neck.

You shift a little, just enough to turn toward him.

And there he is.

Messy curls. Sleepy lashes resting on his cheeks. Mouth slightly parted. His hand still holding a bit of your shirt like he grabbed it in his sleep.

God, he looks so young like this. So soft. So heartbreakingly yours.

You don’t move. You just watch him for a minute — taking in the curve of his jaw in the sunlight, the way his lips twitch when he dreams, the faint scruff on his chin that he always forgets to shave when he’s off-season.

Then he stirs.

A tiny groan, a twitch of his fingers, and suddenly his eyes blink open — warm, lazy, that honey-brown glow aimed right at you.

“Morning, baby…” he whispers, voice deep and raspy enough to make you forget your own name.

You brush his hair back from his forehead. “Happy birthday, old man.”

He groans dramatically and drags the pillow over his face. “Don’t say that. I’m still young. I’m basically… a youth.”

You laugh, pulling the pillow down. “You’re 26.”

“And thriving,” he says, stretching his arms over his head in a way that shows a lot more muscle than necessary. “Peak performance. Athlete mode.”

You roll your eyes, but your smile is already softening.

He reaches for you, pulling you into him until your forehead rests against his collarbone. His fingers trace your spine lazily, half-asleep, half-savoring you like you’re the first gift he gets today.

“Do I at least get my present now?” he asks into your hair, smirking.

“Later,” you say, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.

He hums. “Later,” he repeats, but the way he says it proves he’s absolutely going to annoy you about it again in an hour.

He stays like that for a bit — holding you, slowly waking up, the world outside still quiet and clean. You can feel every breath he takes, every subtle shift of his body as the morning settles around you both.

Finally, he pulls back just enough to look at you.

His thumb brushes your cheekbone. His smile is small, sleepy, stupidly sweet.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

“For what?” you whisper.

“For… this.” His hand squeezes your waist. “For you waking up next to me.” A kiss to your temple. “For making today feel like something.”

You swallow. Your heart does that stupid flip thing.

He sits up then — curls messy, shirt half-wrinkled, sunlight catching on the little chain he forgot to take off last night.

He stretches again, yawning. “Okay,” he mutters, rubbing his face. “I need food. And coffee. And probably a shower. And maybe you’ll let me open my gift if I behave.”

You chuckle. “We’ll see.”

He leans over, kisses your forehead, and whispers against your skin:

“Come on, let’s start the day.”

He reaches for your hand — that warm, familiar squeeze — and pulls you out of bed with him.