It’s like 35 degrees out, the Austin sun is trying to murder me, and I swear my McLaren shirt is absorbing every ounce of heat like a personal attack.

I wipe the sweat off my forehead and glance over at her — iced coffee in the hand, looking smug and unbothered as usual.

“It’s too fucking hot,” I mutter.

She side-eyes me. “Don’t you dare do what I think you’re about to do.”

I raise my eyebrows. “What?” I smirk, already grabbing the hem of my shirt.

“Lando…” she warns.

Shirt’s off. I toss it over my shoulder.

“Too late,” I laugh.

“LAN-DO!” she shrieks, laughing but fully horrified. “Tony will kill you!”

“Who cares? I’m a grown man.”

“That’s not the point!”

And then — this menace of a woman — pinches my nipple and sprints toward the McLaren garage, laughing her ass off like she just won a race.

“WHY?!” I shout, chasing after her, shirtless, sweaty, and very much underpaid for this harassment.

We burst into the garage, both breathless from laughter, practically collapsing into each other as the crew watches on like we’ve lost our minds (which we have, regularly).

Tony, our long-suffering PR manager, turns around with a deadpan expression that screams not again.

“What are you two doing?!”

“She pinched my nipple!” I whine, pointing at her.

Tony sighs, shaking his head with a chuckle. “Your t-shirt shouldn’t be off anyways.”

She crosses her arms, smug as ever. “Yeah, mister.”

“Oh, shut up, you.”

She smirks.

Tony just mutters something about how he needs a raise and walks off like a man on the verge of retirement.

Back at the hotel. We crash into the room, both too tired to bother with anything fancy. She changes into a pair of shorts and my oversized t-shirt. I strip to my boxers and crawl straight into bed.

She slides in next to me, arms wrapping around me instantly, her fingers already playing with my hair the way she knows makes me melt.

“I love you so much,” she whispers, kissing the top of my head.

“Love you too,” I mumble, burying my face in her neck, “my gorgeous girl.”