It’s been two weeks since that night upstairs—since Lando stretched out on your bed and pretended like it was nothing.

But it wasn’t nothing.

Because now, every time he looks at you, it lingers. And tonight? It’s worse.

Max dragged you to a late-night bonfire at the beach. Typical post-race “we’re totally chill now” kind of night. You’re in a hoodie again—his, not Lando’s—and your feet are bare in the sand. The fire crackles, your brother’s friends are laughing somewhere behind you, but you’re not listening.

Because Lando’s here.

And he hasn’t stopped glancing at you.

You’re sitting on a log, knees hugged to your chest, watching the sparks flick up into the dark sky when he finally wanders over.

“Thought you hated parties,” he says casually, plopping down next to you.

You smirk. “Thought you hated shirts with buttons.”

He glances down at his half-open beach shirt, grins. “Touché.”

The silence stretches, but it’s not awkward. Not anymore. It’s charged. Like he’s waiting for something.

Then, out of nowhere, he says, “Max would kill me.”

You blink. “What?”

He shrugs. “If he knew what I was thinking right now.”

You don’t ask. Not yet. You just look at him—really look.

His curls are backlit by firelight. He smells like saltwater and smoke and something faintly sweet, like sunscreen and gum. His knee brushes yours.

He doesn’t move.

“Do you want me to stop?” he asks, voice low.

You should say yes.

But you don’t.

You just whisper, “What are you thinking?”

He turns toward you fully now, jaw tense, voice quiet.

“That you’re not Max’s little sister anymore.”

And that’s when you stop breathing.

Because this time… he’s not pretending it’s nothing.