You swore you weren’t going to look at him again.Not like that, anyway. Not the way that makes your chest fizz like shaken champagne, not the way that makes every word he says taste sweeter than it should.

But Lando Norris has that problem about him. He walks into a room like he’s carrying sunlight under his skin, all smirks and careless curls, and suddenly your spine straightens, your hands fidget, your throat goes dry.

It’s worse tonight. The Monaco air is warm and thick with salt, music spilling from a party down the pier, and Lando’s sitting too close always too close. His knee brushes yours once, then twice, then stays there, heat seeping through denim. You glance at him, but he’s staring ahead like it’s nothing, like he hasn’t just made the world tilt sideways.

“You’ve got that look,” he says casually, like he hasn’t just lit your nerves on fire.

“What look?”

“The one where you’re trying not to smile.” His lips twitch, betraying his own restraint. “Like you’ve got something sweet stuck in your teeth.”

You scoff, but he’s right. It feels exactly like that something caught between wanting and tasting, between imagining and daring.

You shift, trying to hide it, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t let you. His hand drapes over the back of your chair now, fingertips brushing the bare skin of your shoulder like an accident. He smells like saltwater and aftershave, and your whole body aches with the need to lean closer.

“You ever notice,” he says, voice quieter now, conspiratorial, “how sugar melts faster on the tongue when it’s stolen?”

Your heart jumps. You know this is dangerous his grin is all challenge, his eyes daring you to take the bait. He’s always like this: teasing, tugging, pulling you closer with words that sound like games but feel like promises.

So you play along. “Then maybe you should stop looking at me like you’re about to steal something.” That gets him. His grin cracks wide, boyish and sharp. “And if I already have?”

The silence between you hums like a wire. You can hear the ocean slap against the docks, laughter in the distance, the thrum of your pulse. You swear the air tastes different now, like spun sugar, like syrup, like everything dangerous and addictive. And then he leans in. Not a kiss, not yet. Just close enough that his breath grazes your cheek, close enough that your whole body leans forward without permission.

“Careful,” he whispers, voice low and sweet, “I’ve got a sweet tooth.”

And that’s it you’re gone. Because Lando Norris doesn’t just taste like sugar on your tongue; he is sugar—sticky, golden, impossible to wash away once he’s touched you.