It started with a dare — one of those stupid, late-summer ones that only make sense when you’re drunk enough not to care.

The music was deafening, the kind that vibrated through your chest. The beach bar was packed. Sweat, perfume, salt air, everything blending into a blur. You were halfway through your drink when your friend leaned in, smirking.

“Okay, hear me out,” she shouted over the bass. “If you manage to sleep with him tonight—” she nodded toward the bar, “—I’ll cover the villa bill for the week.”

You followed her gaze — curls, tan skin, familiar face. Lando Norris.

You laughed, shaking your head. “You’re out of your mind.” “Yeah, but imagine telling that story.”

You told yourself you wouldn’t. You told yourself you’d just go to the bar for another drink. But he looked up before you could talk yourself out of it, and that was it — that half-second of eye contact, the corner of his mouth twitching like he already knew.

You walked over anyway.

He noticed immediately, eyes flicking from your shoes to your face. “Did I spill on you or something?” he said, voice low and rough from shouting all night. You leaned against the counter next to him. “No. Just thought you looked like someone who’d buy me a drink.” He raised a brow. “That right?” “Mm,” you hummed, lips curling. “You gonna prove me wrong?”

He didn’t.

You don’t even remember what you ordered — just his hand brushing yours when he passed you the glass, the way he looked at you when you thanked him. Like you were both already past small talk and halfway to something else.

Minutes slipped fast. You talked about nothing — where you were from, why you were there, how the DJ was awful — but it didn’t matter. It was the way he leaned closer when you spoke, how his knee brushed your thigh like it wasn’t an accident.

When the beat dropped, he grinned and tilted his head toward the dance floor. “C’mon. You look like you know how to move.”

You rolled your eyes, but he was already taking your hand, pulling you through the crowd.

And then it was just bodies and noise — his chest against your back, breath warm against your neck. His hands found your hips like he’d been there before, guiding, teasing. You turned around, and the look on his face nearly stopped you — pupils blown, smile gone, just pure focus.

“Didn’t think you’d actually be good at this,” you said, trying to sound steady. He laughed under his breath, leaning in. “You have no idea what I’m good at.”

You shouldn’t have smiled, but you did.

At some point, your friends disappeared. The music blurred. You only remember his hand tracing the inside of your wrist, your breath catching when he whispered something you didn’t even process — and then your lips were on his. Quick. Hungry. Like it was inevitable.

He pressed you against the bar, hips grinding ever so slightly, teeth grazing your bottom lip, and you let out a breath you didn’t even know you were holding. Every laugh, every glance from before was gone — it was just him, just you, just the fire igniting between you.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him even closer, and he responded in kind, hands roaming as if memorizing your body right there on the dance floor. You were lost. He was lost. Every inch of skin was electricity, every breath was heat.

Then, almost painfully out of nowhere, you caught it. Across the room, your friend was giving you that look — wide-eyed, mischievous, pointing subtly toward him. That look that reminded you of the dare. The bet. The challenge that had started this whole thing.

Your heart skipped. Your lips barely parted, and he pulled back just enough to look at you, brows slightly raised. “What?” he asked, still heavy with heat, still holding you like he wasn’t about to let go. “Nothing,” you panted, a grin tugging at the corner of your lips as your mind reeled. “Just… remembered something.”

He smirked, clearly intrigued, and before you could explain, the bass dropped again, the crowd surged, and the two of you were back at it — teeth, lips, hands, all of it.