The bass was heavy, lights flashing pink and gold across the bar. Lando wasn’t supposed to stay long — just a few drinks with friends. But then he saw you.

You were leaning against the counter, laughing at something your friend said, every move casual but somehow captivating. He caught himself staring, just a second too long.

You turned, caught his gaze, and smirked. “You good, or should I start charging for staring?”

He grinned, stepping closer. “Depends how much you charge.”

You tilted your head. “Expensive. I’m the premium experience.”

That earned a soft laugh from him. “You’re smoother than I expected, race boy.”

He blinked, amused. “Race boy? That what you’re calling me now?”

“Fits you,” you said, smirking. “Fast cars, fast talk. Probably fast to leave, too.”

“So you do know who I am.”

“Hard not to. Lando Norris — race car driver, heartbreaker, and probably thinks any girl who talks to him wants an autograph.”

“Ouch.” He raised his brows, pretending to be wounded. “You always this mean to people who flirt with you?”

“Only the ones who think they’re charming.”

“Good thing I am charming.”

You gave him a teasing once-over, slow and deliberate. “You’re confident, I’ll give you that.”

He leaned in a little, voice lowering. “Confidence is half the game.”

“And what’s the other half?”

“Getting you to stay long enough to find out.”

That earned him your softest laugh yet — the kind that made his chest tighten a bit too much. “Cute line. You practice that in the mirror?”

“Only on race weekends,” he shot back, grinning. “Want to hear my podium speech too?”

“Oh, save it,” you said, waving him off. “I don’t do relationships, podiums, speeches — any of that.”

He tilted his head, intrigued. “Then what do you do?”

You smiled like you already knew you were trouble. “Flirting. Just the fun part.”

“Just the fun part,” he repeated, leaning back with a smirk. “So, no complications?”

“Exactly. I get bored fast.”

“Then I’ll just have to keep you entertained.”

You arched a brow. “You think you can handle that?”

“I drive at 300 km/h for a living,” he said, eyes glinting. “Pretty sure I can handle you.”

You chuckled, but there was a flicker in your smile — something that gave him hope he’d gotten under your skin. “Careful, race boy. People crash when they get cocky.”

He stepped closer, grin fading into something quieter. “Then I’ll make it worth the crash.”

For a beat, neither of you said anything — just the pulse of music, too much eye contact, too much heat between you.

You were the one to break it, finally tapping your glass against his. “Good luck, race boy. You’ll need it.”

“Don’t go disappearing on me now,” he said, watching you with that half-smile.

You smirked as you turned away, slipping into the crowd with a sway of your hips. “Try and find me.”

He watched you go — the tease of your laugh fading into the beat — and realized he already wanted another round.