This wasn’t the plan

Not this weekend. Not this hotel. Not on the same floor as him.

But your original Airbnb canceled last minute. Some glitch in the system. And somehow, after three hours of arguing with support, you ended up here—a four-star hotel paid for by your angry travel agent, overlooking the city and full of people you weren’t emotionally prepared to see again.

Especially not him.

Lando.

You’d met a year ago—briefly, stupidly—on a media day where you’d spilled an iced coffee on his shoes. You were just an intern then. He was already Lando Norris.

You’d thought that was it.

It wasn’t.

One conversation turned into three. Three turned into six-hour calls. Then dinner. Then the hotel thing. Then everything in between.

And then—nothing.

No real breakup. Just distance. Busy schedules. Unread messages. Spain was where it had all started. And now, apparently, it was where the universe decided to place you in Room 122.

Right across the hall from him.

You heard him before you saw him—his voice low, laughing with someone on the phone. The sound made your stomach twist. You froze outside your door, keycard in hand, trying not to breathe too loud.

Then the door across the hall opened.

He stopped mid-sentence when he saw you.

You blinked. “Hey.”

His voice dropped. “Hey.”

Neither of you moved.

And just like that—everything that had been left unsaid between you was right there, humming between the doors.