You and Lando grew up two doors down in Bristol, a world of rainy streets, ice cream runs at midnight, and endless summer nights. He was your partner in crime, your secret keeper, your first best friend, the kind of bond that made ordinary days unforgettable.

Then came the move. Monaco. Your parents had plans, big plans, and suddenly your Bristol life shrank down to a single suitcase. You were twelve, nervous and excited all at once.

“Promise you’ll call?” Lando asked, cheeks puffed like he was holding back tears.

“I will,” you said, trying to sound braver than you felt. “Every day.”

He smiled faintly, eyes glimmering. “Okay… just don’t forget me.”

“I won’t,” you promised.

And for a little while, you didn’t. Texts, FaceTimes—they kept your friendship alive. But high school happened. Life got busy. New friends, new distractions. Slowly, the messages dried up, the calls stopped, and Bristol became a memory tucked somewhere deep in your chest.

Now, years later, Monaco had become your playground. Your apartment overlooked the marina, your wardrobe could rival the boutiques along the Croisette, and your weekends were spent brunching, gossiping, and planning who would sit where at the upcoming Grand Prix. Invitations had arrived weeks ago, glittery and gold-edged, promising champagne and the most exclusive view of the race.

You were sprawled across your couch, silk robe slightly messy, scrolling through your phone while your best friend lounged on the floor beside you.

“Ugh, I don’t even know what to wear,” you groaned, tossing your hair back dramatically. “Do I do sequins or satin? Heels or…boots?”

Your friend rolled her eyes, smirking. “Hey… didn’t you have a childhood best friend or something? Lando…?”

You froze mid-scroll. “Yeah… why?”

She leaned over, showing you her phone, and suddenly your heart dropped. Lando Norris. F1 driver. Monaco Grand Prix this weekend. Eyes wide, you practically shrieked

“When did he get hot??”

You grabbed her phone like it contained the secrets of the universe, eyes wide. “Excuse me… when did he get so hot??”

Before you even realized it, your foot caught the edge of the couch and dramatic as ever you toppled off onto the floor. Your friend didn’t even flinch. Calm as ever, she offered a hand. “Graceful,” she deadpanned.

You ignored her entirely, sprawling on the rug, phone clutched in hand. Every photo, every headline… it was like seeing the boy from Bristol all grown up.

You sat up a little, hair falling in your face, and just stared at the screen. “Okay… wow. Huh. Wait…he’s hot.” You looked again, and again. “Like…really hot. How…?”

Your friend looked at you, completely oblivious. “I mean… yeah? He’s… kinda hot?” She grinned, holding a macaron like that explained everything. “I mean, you’re still cuter though, obviously.”

You rolled your eyes at her confidence. “Obviously. But still… damn.” You flopped back, sprawled across the floor with a dramatic groan.

Your friend hummed thoughtfully, poking at a pillow. “Well… at least you’re going to see him at the Grand Prix, right? I mean, yay, champagne, yachts, fancy people… and him. Hopefully.”

You groaned again, sprawled on the rug, staring at the ceiling. “Okay… wow. Huh. He…” you muttered, biting your lip. Your mind was doing that embarrassing thing it always did when a crush suddenly looked..like this. Your eyes were glued to the screen. “He was an ugly kid, okay. Honest. But somehow…now..sexy man level. I don’t even know how this happened. I might need a minute. Or ten.”

Your friend giggled nervously, poking your arm. “Uh…you’re being…weird. But also…yeah..wow.” She just shrugged, completely clueless, like this was normal conversation. “Cool. That’s…good? Maybe we should pick out what you’re wearing to the Grand Prix instead of… whatever that was.”

And lying there, still staring at the ceiling, you couldn’t stop thinking. It wasn’t about the race, or the yachts, or even the sparkling invitations. It was about him. The boy who had stolen your chocolate bars, laughed at your terrible jokes… and somehow.., turned into this.