You weren’t even supposed to be on that side of the garage.

But your instructor handed you the wrong checklist, and now you were standing in front of Lando’s car, pretending you knew what to do with the very complicated-looking trolley of tools beside you.

And of course—of course—that’s when he walked in.

Lando. Race suit half-zipped, curls pushed back like he’d just taken off his helmet and a smirk already forming because he’d clearly caught you slacking.

“Wrong spot,” he said, arms crossed, leaning against the doorway like he owned the place.

You didn’t even look up. “Am not.”

“You’re about to clean the wrong tires.”

You froze. Slowly looked down.

…You were definitely about to clean the wrong tires.

“Okay maybe I got a little turned around,” you admitted, biting your lip.

He pushed off the door, walking over, and holy hell he smelled like motor oil and expensive cologne.

“I’m not judging,” he said, stopping in front of you. “Just… surprised.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Surprised?”

“That they let someone this pretty near my car,” he said casually, like it wasn’t enough to make your brain malfunction.

Your face heated instantly. “You can’t flirt with the intern. I think that’s illegal.”

He grinned. “Good thing I’m not flirting. I’m just being friendly.”

He reached over, grabbed the correct sponge, and swapped it with the one in your hand. His fingers brushed yours—slow, deliberate—and lingered just a second too long.

“Start with the front left,” he said softly, still close. “That’s where I always get the worst crap from the track.”

You blinked at him. “How do you know that?”

He gave a little shrug, smile tugging at his lips. “I pay attention.”

And then he winked, turned around, and walked off—leaving your heart going 300 km/h and your brain doing absolutely nothing useful.

Because now? You couldn’t stop paying attention to him too.