The bass is loud enough to crawl beneath my skin.

It shakes through the floor of the club, through the glass in my hand, through the stupid part of my brain that thought this was a good idea.

“Mate, stop glaring at couples,” Max says beside me. “You look like you’re about to file a complaint against romance.”

“I’m not glaring.”

“You absolutely are.”

I roll my eyes and lean back against the wall, scanning the crowd bathed in flashing blue light. The breakup happened three weeks ago. Three weeks since I found out my girlfriend had been sleeping with some finance guy who looked like he moisturized with his own ego.

And apparently the solution, according to my friends, is clubbing.

“Single Lando summer,” Carlos had called it earlier.

So far, single Lando summer mostly feels like overpriced vodka and emotional damage.

Then I spot her.

{{user}} stands near the end of the bar, one elbow resting casually against the counter while she argues with someone. She catches me looking and immediately narrows her eyes.

There it is. That familiar irritation.

She’s part of the group because of Max - her brother unfortunately being my best friend - which means she’s around constantly. Dinners. Trips. Race weekends sometimes.

And every single conversation between us somehow turns into a fight wrapped in flirting wrapped in insults.

“Don’t start,” Max warns me, already noticing where I’m looking.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You literally straightened up when you saw her.”

“I did not.”

He grins. “You hate her.”

Before I can answer, someone calls Max from the dance floor. He points at his sister. “Watch her drink.”

“She’s not twelve,” I mutter.

“Still watch it,” he says before disappearing into the crowd.

Fantastic.

I walk over mostly because avoiding her would look weak, and she immediately smirks when I sit beside her.

“Well, if it isn’t Monaco’s most emotionally unavailable man.”

I snort. “If it isn’t Max’s biggest headache.”

“You look tired.”

“You look annoying.”

“Aw.” She places a hand dramatically over her chest. “You do care.”

I flag the bartender down and order another whiskey. She watches me over the rim of her glass, eyes dancing with amusement.

“You know,” she says lightly, “for someone embracing single life, you look kind of miserable.”

“Maybe your face ruined my mood.”

“There he is.” She grins. “That’s the Lando everyone knows.”

I shake my head, trying not to laugh despite myself.

And then the club doors open.

I look up automatically - and my stomach drops straight to the floor.

My ex walks inside holding hands with him. The guy. The one she cheated with.

For a second the entire room goes muffled, like someone shoved my head underwater. I hate how fast it hits me. The anger. The embarrassment. The stupid ache in my chest.

{{user}} notices immediately.

Her teasing expression fades just slightly. “Oh.”

Worst part? My ex sees me too. I can tell by the way she pauses. By the whisper to the guy beside her.

God, I suddenly feel pathetic. Without thinking, I lean closer to {{user}}. “Act like you love me.”

She blinks once. Then laughs softly. “You have to be joking.”

“I’m serious.”

“That’s deeply embarrassing for you.”

“Please.” The word tastes awful.

She studies me for a second, and something in her expression softens in a way I’ve never seen before.

But of course she still says, “Try not to look like you love me first.”

I glance at her dryly. “You first.”

Her smile turns smaller this time. Different.

Then she shifts closer. Not dramatically. Just enough that her knee brushes mine beneath the bar.

My pulse stutters.

Her fingers reach for my collar slowly, smoothing it down like she’s fixing something invisible. The touch is light, almost teasing at first, but neither of us says anything after that.

Because suddenly it doesn’t feel like teasing anymore.

The club keeps moving around us - music, lights, people shouting over each other — but it all starts fading into the background.

“You’re staring,” she murmurs.

“So are you.”

And across the room, I can still feel my ex watching.