You used to think love just wasn’t meant for you.

Not in the dramatic, heartbroken way — just in the quiet kind. The kind that settles into your bones after too many almosts. Too many people who made you feel like you were asking for too much just by wanting to be understood.

You stopped expecting it one day. You stopped replaying old conversations in your head, stopped trying to figure out what you could’ve done better. You made peace with being alone — convinced yourself maybe some people just aren’t made for the kind of love that lasts.

And then he showed up.

Lando. Of course it had to be him — too bright, too kind, too much like something out of a dream.

He didn’t try to fix you. He just stayed. In the little ways that matter most — remembering your coffee order, texting you when he landed just to say he missed your voice, never making you feel like you were too much or not enough.

Now, months later, it’s an ordinary Tuesday that doesn’t feel ordinary at all. You’re sitting on the floor of his living room, surrounded by open suitcases and half-folded laundry. He’s flying out tomorrow — a quick trip before the next race — and somehow you’ve both managed to turn packing into chaos. There’s a shirt draped over your head, his hoodie on the couch, and he’s laughing so hard he can barely breathe.

“Okay, you’re actually useless at this,” he says, grinning as he folds one of your shirts instead of his. “You’re the one who brought three pairs of shoes for a two-day trip.” “They’re different styles,” he argues. “I have range.”

You roll your eyes, watching him pretend to organize things while really just finding excuses to stay close. He’s tired — you can tell — but he still leans over to press a quick kiss against your cheek before turning back to his suitcase like it didn’t happen.

You smile to yourself. You still can’t believe it sometimes — how simple it feels now. How safe. How right.

He looks up a second later, catching you staring. “What?” “Nothing,” you say, shrugging. “Doesn’t look like nothing.” You hesitate, then admit, “I think I’m just realizing how happy I am.”

For a moment, he doesn’t move. Then he sits back on his heels, smiling in that quiet, knowing way that always gets you.

“Good,” he says softly. “That’s all I ever wanted you to be.”

The world outside goes on — flights waiting, races ahead, time moving too fast — but for now, it’s just the two of you. A mess of clothes, soft laughter, and the kind of peace you used to think wasn’t real.