I pad into the kitchen, bare feet on the cool tiles, the house quiet except for the hum of the fridge. It’s late, but I can’t sleep. I open the cupboard, grab a glass and fill it with water. The stream runs clear and steady, the sound soft in the silence.

I lift the glass halfway to my lips when I hear it. A sharp inhale, like someone gasping for air. Followed by a voice. Her voice.

“Mr. Lando Norris!”

I freeze, glass hovering. There’s amusement in her tone, but also something else - surprise, disbelief, maybe even a little bit of heat. I set the glass down slowly and lean toward the doorway.

She’s curled up on the sofa in the living room, laptop balanced on her knees, the glow from the screen lighting up her face. Her eyes are wide, her lips parted and then she looks up at me like I’ve just walked in wearing something illegal.

“What?” I ask cautiously, stepping closer.

She turns the laptop around. Vogue’s website. My face. My body. One of the shots from the lakeside - grey suit hanging open, nothing underneath, chest bare. My expression sharp, jawline cut like I’m trying to seduce the entire internet.

I groan. “Oh, that one.”

“That one?” {{user}} repeats, eyes narrowing. “You didn’t think to mention you’d be..half-naked? In front of the entire British Vogue readership?”

I rub the back of my neck. “Didn’t think it was a big deal.”

She snaps the laptop shut and sets it aside, but not before I catch the faint flush on her cheeks. She’s trying for annoyed, but her body betrays her.

“Not a big deal,” she mutters, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. “You walk into our living room shirtless often enough, but somehow seeing you styled like that - God, Lando, you could’ve warned me.”

I lean against the doorway, smirking now. “Why? Would you have tried to stop me?”

Her eyes flick over me, lingering just a little too long. “No. But I might’ve cleared my schedule for tonight.”

Heat sparks low in my stomach. I push off the frame, cross the room slowly. “So you like them.”

{{user}} tilts her head, trying to look unimpressed, but her voice comes out lower than usual. “You look..dangerous.”

I stop in front of her, close enough to see the rise and fall of her chest. “Dangerous?”

Her lips curve into a teasing smile. “Like you know exactly what you’re doing. Like you’d ruin me if you wanted to.”

The glass of water forgotten, my pulse kicks hard. I lower myself onto the sofa beside her, one arm braced on the back, leaning in. “And what if I do?”

She exhales sharply, eyes darkening. For a second neither of us moves, the air between us thick with heat. Then her hand slides over my chest, slow and deliberate, tracing along my collarbone like she’s testing the pictures against reality. My breath hitches.

“I think Vogue undersold it,” she whispers. “You look even better right here.”

Her words coil around me, hot and impossible to ignore. My grin falters into something hungrier as I catch her wrist, holding her hand against my chest.

“Careful, love,” I murmur, my voice rough. “You’re the one who started this.”

She laughs softly, breathless already and shifts closer, knees brushing mine. “Then finish it.”

The laptop slips forgotten onto the rug, the Vogue photos replaced by the real thing - her fingers gripping my shirt, my mouth finding hers, every ounce of tension from those pictures spilling over into something raw and electric between us.