It was one of those rare nights where no one cared about lap times or tire deg. Just me, a few of the guys, and her — {{user}} — crammed into my apartment, half-empty pizza boxes on the table, music playing low in the background.

I was perched on the edge of the table, drink in hand, while she lounged on the sofa, legs curled beneath her. She looked good. Too good for my own focus.

Tom cracked a joke about me never learning another language, and Max, one of my oldest mates, smirked. "Lando — say something in Portuguese!"

I grinned, leaning back a little, eyes flicking straight to {{user}}. "Beijinhos," I said, slow and easy.

She raised an eyebrow, a hint of a smirk tugging at her lips.

"What’s that mean?" one of the guys asked.

I didn’t take my eyes off her. "Kisses."

{{user}} shook her head, pretending to look unimpressed, but I caught the way her fingers brushed her neck, like she was suddenly aware of every move I made.

I let a beat pass, then said it again. "Beijinhos."

This time, softer. Still only to her.

The room carried on — someone opened another drink, the playlist skipped tracks — but it felt like we were the only two in it.

And for good measure, I dropped it a third time, smirking. "Beijinhos."

She didn’t say a word. Just bit the inside of her cheek and looked away, but not before I saw that flicker in her eyes.

Yeah. Game on.