Friday night.

The kind of party people would talk about for weeks — maybe even months. A mansion with too many bedrooms no one would ever use, packed wall-to-wall with bodies pressed together like it was the only place to be. Bass rattled through the floorboards, music so loud it made the walls buzz, and every corner smelled like spilled beer, cheap vodka, and perfume sprayed too heavy. Someone’s older brother had shown up with crates of bottles that didn’t belong in the hands they ended up in, but nobody cared. Everyone was trying too hard to look older, to feel older, like this was the night that would finally make them matter.

Especially him.

Lando Norris.

Eighteen, but already moving through life like he’d skipped a few steps. Like high school rules didn’t apply to him. The designer hoodie that hung loose over his shoulders, the sneakers cleaner than anyone else’s, the car parked out front that made every guy grit his teeth. He didn’t even have to try — he just was. The boy who never had to push his way through a room because the room shifted for him. The boy who never really looked at you when the crowd was watching.

But when it was just you two? That was different.

Tonight though, it stung. It burned more than you wanted to admit. You’d spotted him in the kitchen earlier, center of it all — leaning against the counter with a red cup in his hand, head tipped back in laughter that carried over the music. His arm draped lazily around girls you didn’t even know, girls who leaned into him like they’d been waiting all night for his attention. He didn’t look your way once. Not even a glance.

At least not until later.

By the time the night started thinning — people stumbling out for air, some collapsed on couches, others gathered in sloppy circles outside with cigarettes glowing in the dark — you found yourself alone in the living room, the music muffled now, not as sharp as before. That’s when you felt it.

A shift in the air behind you. The brush of a shoulder too close. The faint smell of alcohol clinging to his hoodie, vodka and cologne mixing into something messy, dizzying. His hand grazed your arm, barely there but enough to make your pulse stumble over itself.

“{{user}},” he murmured, voice slurred but low, like he only wanted you to hear it. His words dragged out, uneven, but heavy in the quiet that had settled between the songs. “Stay. Please… just stay over.”

Your chest tightened so hard it almost hurt. God, you’d dreamed of him saying that — a hundred times, maybe more — but never like this. Not with his eyes glassy and unfocused, not with his grip shaky like he couldn’t hold himself up without leaning on you. Not when you weren’t sure if tomorrow he’d even remember it.

You tried to laugh it off, to let the sound cover the ache rising in your throat, but the laugh cracked halfway through. “You only say stuff like this when you’re drunk.”

His fingers curled tighter around your wrist, not rough, just desperate, like he was terrified you’d slip out of reach. His words tumbled out quick, almost tripping over themselves. “No. I mean it. I… I do.”

And for a second — one painful, fleeting second — you almost let yourself believe him. Almost.

But then his mouth twisted into another laugh, short and unsteady, and you saw it again — the cracks, the haze, the part of him that was too far gone to know what he was promising.

The noise came flooding back, people yelling, singing, bottles hitting tables, but your mind stayed quiet, heavy.

You pulled your arm free slowly, your smile tilting into something that hurt more than it showed. “God, I wish you meant this when you were sober.”

And just like that, the moment hung there. His words still warm in your ear, his hand brushing yours like he hadn’t fully let go, his eyes caught between reaching for you and slipping away into the noise. The music pounded on, the lights stuttered, the night carried everyone else forward — but not you.

You stood there with the choice clinging to your chest like smoke. Step into his chaos, or finally walk away