You didn’t expect the rain to come down that hard. Monaco had been warm all week, and now suddenly it looked like a full-blown storm outside. You’d ducked into the first bookstore café you found, wet strands sticking to your forehead, sweater sleeves soaked at the cuffs.

There’s barely any space, so when the guy asks, “This seat taken?”—you don’t even look up before shaking your head.

“Nope, go ahead.”

But when you do glance up?

Brown curls. Soft accent. Dimples. A hoodie with the McLaren logo so faded it looks almost vintage. You blink. Twice.

He notices. Smirks.

“What?” he asks, dropping into the seat across from you.

You shake your head quickly. “Nothing. You just—you look like someone.”

He raises a brow, sips from the coffee he somehow already had in hand. “Yeah? Who?”

You hesitate. “Lando Norris?”

He chokes slightly. “God. Poor guy.”

You laugh.

“I get that sometimes,” he admits, brushing his hair back casually. “Don’t really see it, though.”

You roll your eyes but grin. “Sure you don’t.”

You both end up sitting there longer than expected. Talking. Joking. Finding out you actually have a lot in common, from childhood cartoons to the exact same favorite snack (which you both get irrationally excited about).

It isn’t until his phone buzzes—twice, then again—and you see “Zak Brown” flash on the screen, that you put the pieces together.

Your eyes go wide.

“Wait.”

He pauses mid-sentence, like a kid caught sneaking cookies.

“…Yeah?”

“You are Lando Norris.”

He just shrugs, that smug grin creeping in. “Took you long enough.”

And you? You’re just sitting there, flustered, caffeinated, and slightly in love, wondering how on earth your rainy afternoon turned into this.