The first time you kissed Lando Norris, you were wearing another guy’s hoodie.

It was late. One of those warm summer nights that made bad decisions feel like good ideas. The party had spilled out onto the street, red cups scattered across sidewalks, someone’s Bluetooth speaker still blaring a remix no one asked for.

You were sitting on the curb, half-buzzed, legs outstretched, hoodie too big, sipping from your drink when Lando sat down beside you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Whose hoodie?” he asked, like it mattered.

You shrugged. “Someone who doesn’t want me like you do.”

He turned his head slowly. Stared.

You didn’t flinch.

And then—you kissed him.

No warning. No build-up. Just leaned in, kissed him once, soft and slow, like you’d been meaning to all year.

You pulled away before he could process it.

“Goodnight, Lando,” you said, standing. “Try not to fall in love or anything.”

You left him there. On the sidewalk. In shock.

That was three months ago.

And now?

Now you’re both at the same table at a Monaco gala, of course. Everyone dressed to impress. Glass clinking. Lando across from you in a suit that fits too well and a stare that hasn’t moved in minutes.

His fingertips are grazing the base of his wine glass, but his eyes stay locked on you.

You glance away.

Act unaffected.

Because tonight, you’re not the girl in someone else’s hoodie. You’re the one he’s still trying to figure out.

And you’re not giving him a second kiss that easy.

Not yet.