It’s past 2 a.m., and the afterparty in a sprawling Spanish villa is winding down. Half-empty bottles litter the table, and partygoers lounge lazily, too relaxed to care. Someone suggests a game of Truth or Dare “for old time’s sake.” You’re sitting across from Lando Norris, legs spread, curls messy, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, who just downed a shot of tequila, cheeks flushed and wearing that familiar smug grin hiding something deeper.

When it’s his turn, a slurred voice calls out, “Truth, Norris. Who would you take home tonight?” The group chuckles, eyes drifting to models in the corner, but Lando’s gaze locks on you and doesn’t waver.

“Easy,” he says. “You.”

Suddenly, the room quiets. The weight of his stare and the tension behind his half-smile feel like more than just a drunken game. Leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees, his voice drops low, raw.