You shouldn’t even be here.

Not because you weren’t invited—technically, everyone from McLaren was. But you’re low on the totem pole. Social media assistant. Edits clips, posts stories, cuts reaction videos. The kind of job that means being everywhere, seeing everything, and being seen by no one.

Until now.

Silverstone was chaos. Glorious, orange-tinted chaos. Lando won. First ever home race victory. You’d caught the whole reaction—his jump out of the car, the cheers, the hugs, the crowd losing their minds. You even posted the moment before the official broadcast. That was your job. But now? Now you were just a girl at a party, in a low-cut black top and jeans that finally made you feel more human than exhausted.

You’re standing by the bar, half-tipsy on whatever drink Max Fewtrell shoved into your hand, when you feel someone stop a little too close behind you.

You turn—and nearly choke.

It’s him.

Sweaty curls, chain around his neck, white t-shirt sticking to his chest. Lando. Fresh off the win, eyes glazed over in that happy, blurry, tipsy way that only happens when the adrenaline hasn’t quite worn off.

He’s looking straight at you. Head tilted. Smile crooked.

“Hi,” he says, lazily. “Have we met?”

You freeze. “Uhh… I mean. Sort of? I work with McLaren. Social team.”

He blinks slowly, then leans closer, trying to focus. “Really?”

You nod. “I’m usually behind the cameras.”

“Hmm,” he says, still watching you with this dazed, fascinated look. “Then I guess I’ve been missing out.”

Your stomach drops. That’s not in the script. Not from him.

You glance around. “You’re probably looking for someone else.”

“Nope.” He leans one arm against the bar, tipping toward you. “I came over here ‘cause you’re gorgeous. And you’re not screaming at me, or trying to FaceTime someone, or crying, which is… a first tonight.”

Your laugh escapes before you can stop it.

“Not crying yet,” you say, teasing. “Give it a few more drinks.”

He grins. “You’re funny.”

You can feel your skin heating under the weight of his gaze. This isn’t real. He doesn’t even know who you are.

“Should I know your name?” he asks suddenly, a little drunk, a little direct. “Because now I really wanna know.”

You hesitate, nerves twisting in your stomach. “Do you want the truth?”

“Always.”

“I’ve worked at McLaren for over a year. We’ve probably been in the same room… a hundred times. You’ve never looked at me once. Until tonight.”

He blinks. Pauses. Then lifts his hand with a playful, slow-motion wince. “Oof. Brutal.”

You shrug, lips twitching. “I’m just saying.”

“Well,” he says, stepping even closer now, voice dropping a little. “That’s on me. But in my defense, I’ve had a lot of helmets and cameras in my face this year. Kinda hard to spot an angel in the crowd.”

You roll your eyes, but your heart skips anyway.

He notices. Of course he does.

“Do you want a drink?” he asks, softer now. “Not as Lando Norris, F1 winner. Just… as a guy who’s never seen a prettier girl in the McLaren garage.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Are you always this smooth when you’re drunk?”

He grins. “Nah. Only when I’m terrified of forgetting your name tomorrow.”

You pause, then finally hold out your hand.

“It’s {{user}}.”

He takes it, gently, his fingers wrapping around yours for a second too long.

“Hi, {{user}},” he says. “Guess we’re finally meeting.”

And maybe he didn’t know you before. But something tells you, he’s not forgetting you now.