You wake up to the soft buzz of silence — the kind that doesn’t belong to hotel rooms or apartment blocks. It’s too still. Too private.

You blink up at a ceiling that isn’t yours. Sheets softer than yours. Pillow warmer than yours.

And then it hits.

You’re not in your bed. You’re in his.

Lando Norris. F1 driver. McLaren. Trouble in a hoodie. And last night…? That definitely wasn’t just small talk.

The memories start slow.

A crowded Monaco club. The bass thumping through your chest. You weren’t even supposed to be out that late, but it was race weekend and the energy was infectious.

You remember turning around and — bam — Lando. Right into you, drink nearly spilling, hand on your waist to steady you. His apology came with that stupidly charming grin.

“My fault. Got distracted.”

“By what?”

“You.”

He said it like it was obvious. And you hated how much you liked it.

⸻

Flash. His hand guiding you through the crowd. Another drink. Then another. His voice in your ear:

“You’re not like the girls here.”

“You don’t know me.”

“Not yet.”

⸻

Flash. The ride to his house. The stupidly nice view from his balcony. Your laugh echoing through the hallway as he kissed you mid-sentence and didn’t stop until your back hit the wall.

Your shirt came off first. His hoodie second. And then it was a blur of skin, hands, teeth grazing lips, breathless gasps into silk sheets. He was all pressure and softness — one second teasing, the next wrecking you.

You remember the way he paused when you whispered his name. The way his voice dropped when he said yours. The way he picked you up like it was nothing and carried you to his bed like he was trying to memorize the way your body felt in his arms.

“You still sure?” “Don’t stop.”

⸻

Now, the light creeps through the tall windows. The sea glimmers in the distance. And he’s still asleep beside you — one arm slung low over your hips, curls a mess, lips slightly parted.

You shift, careful not to wake him.

Your body aches — in the best possible way. Your neck is marked. Your thighs sore. And your heart? Still racing just a little.

You should leave. But your fingers curl into the blanket instead. Because you don’t want to. Not yet.

Not when the night before still tastes like heat and adrenaline. And not when he’s sleeping next to you like he hopes you’ll be there when he opens his eyes.