You’d been arguing with him since you met.

Not real arguments—more like competitive chaos with flirty undertones that neither of you ever acknowledged out loud. You were a performance engineer for Red Bull, sharp-tongued and unbothered. He was Lando Norris—annoyingly charming, annoyingly fast, and annoyingly into poking at you just to see how far you’d bite back.

And you always did.

“Don’t roll your eyes at me,” he said now, grinning from across the debrief room. “It’s not my fault your tire strategy was trash.”

You scoffed. “You lucked into that overcut and you know it.”

“Oh, so we’re doing delusion today?”

You leaned in slightly, arms crossed. “I’m just saying, if I were your engineer, you’d have won that by ten seconds.”

He blinked. Smirked. “Is that a job offer?”

“Nope. Just facts.”

You didn’t realize how close you’d gotten until someone cleared their throat behind you. The room had mostly emptied, except for one or two of your team members who were very pointedly not looking at either of you.

Lando glanced past you, then leaned in like he was going to whisper something. “Careful,” he murmured. “If you keep talking like that, I might think you like me.”

You rolled your eyes—again.

He grinned wider.

And then—without thinking, maybe without meaning to—he kissed you. Just once, quick and warm and stupidly perfect, before pulling back like he hadn’t just short-circuited your brain.

“You blinked first,” he said softly.

And then he walked away.

Leaving you there, mouth slightly open, heart doing somersaults, and no idea what you were supposed to do next.