You were in Monaco for a weekend appearance—some event your PR team had pushed you into. Red carpet, interviews, a whole media circus you barely had the energy for. Your family came too, since they “happened to be in Europe,” and your manager had booked you the nicest hotel in the port. The kind with 12 pillows per bed and someone knocking every few hours just to ask if you needed more ice.

It was supposed to be a clean, controlled trip.

You’d told him not to come.

Not because you didn’t want him there, but because your family was two floors down, your manager was sleeping in the suite next door, and the whole point of keeping this thing with Lando quiet was so it wouldn’t explode in the press.

And yet—

You opened your door, and there he was. Hoodie pulled low, curls messy, mouth tilted up like he knew he was doing something stupid.

“I had to see you,” he said.

You didn’t say anything. Just stepped back to let him in.

He kicked off his shoes, sat on the edge of the bed like he lived there. You stood by the door, arms crossed, heart racing.

“You’re being reckless,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said, eyes still on you.

“Anyone could see you.”

“I know.”

You let out a slow breath. “Lando…”

“I missed you,” he said, suddenly softer.

And that was it.

The part of you that wanted to stay mad—the part that cared about being careful, being smart—melted when he pulled you into his lap and buried his face in your neck like he hadn’t seen you in weeks instead of days.

You knew it was a bad idea.

But his hands were warm. His mouth was gentle. His voice was low in your ear when he whispered, “Just tonight.”