You never thought you’d be the type to fall for the boy who sat two rows behind you in math, doodling little racing cars in the margins of his notebook. But somehow, Lando Norris got under your skin in the most annoyingly perfect way.

He wasn’t the star football player or the kid who ran student council — he was the one always getting shushed in class because he couldn’t stop whispering jokes. The one who showed up late with messy hair and still managed to get away with it because he’d flash that crooked grin. And the one who, despite pretending not to care about anything, always knew when you were having a bad day.

You weren’t sure when exactly it happened—when the teasing turned into a crush, when the crush started feeling like something bigger. Maybe it was the way he leaned across your desk in class to whisper something stupid just to see you roll your eyes. Or maybe it was the way he defended you in the cafeteria that one time, brushing it off like it was nothing while your heart thudded against your ribs. Whatever it was, it felt like being sixteen in the best possible way.

And then there was practice. Football practice for him, sitting on the bleachers with your friends for you. The late afternoon sun hit the field, boys shouting as coaches blew whistles, cleats thudding against the turf. You were mid-conversation with a friend when you heard him shout across the grass, “I see some sleepy heads! Can anyone translate Shakespeare, or do I need to hold a pop quiz right now?” in a perfect imitation of your teacher’s cranky tone. He hunched his shoulders and wagged a finger just like her, and you burst out laughing so hard you nearly fell off the bench. He grinned at your reaction, jogged backward a few steps, and winked before sliding seamlessly back into formation like nothing happened.

When practice ended, he strolled over, hair damp, jersey sticking to his skin. “Didn’t know I was funny enough to make you choke on your water,” he teased, bumping his shoulder lightly against yours before the coach called him back. You hated how easily he could leave you grinning, cheeks warm, with just a few words.

That weekend came the house party. Everyone showed up—even people you swore never left their rooms. Music blasted too loud through tinny speakers, the kind of playlist that jumped from rap to throwbacks without warning. The air smelled like cheap body spray, popcorn, and someone’s attempt at baking cookies that had gone slightly wrong. In the living room, people piled onto couches or the carpet, red solo cups clutched like trophies.

Lando found his way across the circle to sit near you, his knees brushing yours every so often, his grin wider whenever you pretended not to notice. He told a story about their coach tripping over a stray ball, the room bursting into laughter while his eyes lingered only on you.

Then someone clapped their hands together. “Alright, we’re playing kiss, marry, k!ll.” The words made the room buzz louder, groans mixing with excited giggles. The bottle from the kitchen table got dragged into the middle of the circle, spinning lazily under the flicker of fairy lights strung across the ceiling.

It landed on him first. Everyone leaned in, waiting, while he leaned back against the couch with that same easy grin. His eyes flicked to you before sweeping the rest of the circle, his thumb brushing across his lip in thought.

One of his teammates leaned forward with a smirk. “Alright then, let’s make it easy. Emma, Chloe… and {{user}}.” A ripple of laughter ran through the circle, a few people gasping dramatically just to make it worse.

It was just a stupid game, one you’d played a hundred times before. But now, sitting across from him, the rules felt sharper, heavier. His grin faltered just slightly as his eyes moved over the names, finally stopping on you. Tilting his head like he already knew what you were thinking, his thumb brushing against his bottom lip, your chest went tight.

Because for once, the answer wasn’t going to feel like just a g@me