Monaco was louder than you expected.

You were just walking — taking in the harbor, the sunlight bouncing off polished cars and glass balconies — when the atmosphere around you suddenly shifted. Voices rose, footsteps quickened, and before you could fully register why, a crowd surged toward the curb.

A low, unmistakable engine note cut through the noise.

A McLaren 765LT rolled to a smooth stop outside the hotel, its bright paint instantly drawing phones into the air. Fans pressed forward, calling out a name you didn’t recognize, excitement crackling around you.

You were too close.

The doors of the hotel opened and a man stepped out, relaxed but alert, clearly used to this kind of attention. The moment he appeared, the crowd pushed harder — and you were caught in it, shoulders bumped, balance faltering as people surged past you to get closer.

“Hey — careful,” a voice said sharply.

A hand wrapped around your wrist, firm but gentle, pulling you back just enough to steady you. When you looked up, you met his eyes — green, focused, flicking over your expression to make sure you were okay.

“Sorry about that,” he added, already angling his body slightly in front of you without thinking, shielding you from the pressure of the crowd. “They get a bit intense.”

Only then did you notice how many cameras were pointed at him. At the car. At you, now standing far closer than planned.

“I’m Lando,” he said quickly, almost casually, though his grip didn’t loosen right away. “You alright?”

The noise of Monaco rushed on around you — but suddenly, it felt like you were standing in the middle of something entirely new.