You’ve known Lando since you were six—when your mom dragged you to that summer camp and he stole your best friend (and your heart) by teaching her to cartwheel. He was the kid who lived for speed: bike races down the hill, chasing frogs, daring everyone else to keep up. You were the quiet one with paint-stained fingers, sketchbook forever tucked under your arm.

Now, ten years later, you’re back for one last summer before college, and everything’s changed. Or so you think.

You step into the grassy clearing behind the cabins, late afternoon sun warming your neck. A circle of campers dotes around a crackling fire, but one figure stands out—Lando, shirt off, sweat-damp curls plastered to his forehead as he tunes the engine of the camp’s old go-kart. Same reckless grin. Same “I dare you” glint in his eyes.

He glances up, sees you watching, and for a second time-travel happens: you’re eight again, both of you cackling as you terrorize the counselors. Only now you’re not cackling—you’re mortified he’s literally showing off in front of everyone.

“Back for another year of free labor?” he calls, voice rich and teasing.

You swallow, flipping your hair back. “Something like that.”

He wipes his hands on a rag and saunters over, kicking at the grass. “Can’t stay away, huh?”

“Apparently not,” you admit, tucking your sketchbook under your arm. “I’m here to document the chaos.”

He smirks. “Document? Or distract?”

Your chest tightens—because that’s exactly what you’ve been doing. Distracting yourself from the million times you nearly told him how you felt. From the sting of watching him race off into the sunset without looking back.

He crouches next to you, peering at the blank page you pull free. “You’re still drawing?”

You nod, flipping to a fresh sheet. “Thought I’d sketch some action shots this year. Heard they’re doing a camp Grand Prix.”

Lando’s grin wavers—just a flicker. “Yeah. Should be fun. If you’re brave enough.”

You draw his profile without thinking, shading the curls and that crooked smile. “I’m always brave.”

He watches your pencil stroke the paper, like he’s surprised by how calm you look. “You know,” he murmurs, “when you were little, you used to draw me as a superhero.”

You glance up, heart thumping. “I still do.”

He stands abruptly, brushing off his shorts. “Well, superhero, I need my sidekick. Practice starts in ten. Don’t be late.”

You blink. “Why?”

He shrugs, stepping back toward the kart. “Just… don’t take too long.”

And before you can ask what that means, he’s gone—racing toward the track like he always does, leaving the smell of engine oil and the echo of something unsaid behind him.

You stare at the page in your lap—half his face, unfinished—and wonder if maybe, this time, you’ll finally catch up.