You’ve known Lando Norris since you were five—the messy-haired boy who practically lived in your house, always raiding the fridge and dragging your brother Max into some reckless idea. Once, you tried to braid his curls into pigtails. Another time, you scraped both your knees trying to impress him with a wheelie he didn’t even see.

Back then, he called you “short stuff.”

Now, you’re not so little—and he doesn’t call you anything at all.

Max was throwing one of his usual house parties. Loud music, too many guys in polos, girls laughing like they’d forgotten how to breathe. You said hi, you smiled, you even grabbed a drink. But you didn’t stay.

So now you’re upstairs. Door cracked, lights low, sitting on your bed in an old hoodie and socks, half-scrolling through your phone. You can still hear the bass vibrating through the floorboards. Your name gets called a few times, but you ignore it. You’re not in the mood.

Then—you hear the stairs creak.

Slow, easy footsteps. Someone heading toward your room.

The knock is soft, but the door swings open before you can answer.

Lando.

His curls are messier than usual, like someone had their hands in them. His shirt is slightly wrinkled, clinging to his chest. One hand rests casually on the doorframe as he leans in, eyes scanning the room before landing on you.

“There you are,” he says, voice low and amused. “Hiding?”

You hug your knees. “Escaping.”

He chuckles, stepping inside without asking. “Can’t blame you. Max invited a shit ton of people and forgot to buy ice.”

You shrug, feigning disinterest even though your heart stutters when he closes the door behind him.

He glances around—your shelves, your posters, the photos on your mirror. “Haven’t been up here in ages.”

You raise a brow. “Yeah, well. I don’t keep glitter glue on the carpet anymore.”

That earns a grin. He walks over, sitting at the edge of your bed like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “You grew up,” he says quietly, almost like he’s just realizing it.

You roll your eyes, but your voice comes out softer than intended. “That tends to happen.”

His gaze lingers on you, just a second longer than it should. “Still weird seeing you like this. Not running around with a juice box and scraped knees.”

You meet his eyes. “Not the little sister anymore.”

Something shifts in the air. Lando leans back on his palms, tongue pressing to his cheek like he’s considering something. “Yeah… I noticed.”

You shouldn’t look at his mouth. You shouldn’t wonder what he came up here for. But when he nudges your foot with his, slow and teasing, you don’t pull away.

“Wanna come back down?” he asks, almost reluctantly.

You shake your head. “Not unless Max promises to stop trying to DJ.”

Lando grins. “That bad?”

You nod. “Horrible.”

He’s quiet for a second, then shrugs. “Guess I’ll hide here too, then.”

And just like that, he’s sliding back on the bed, stretching out beside you like he belongs there.

Your heart thumps wildly.

Because this time, it’s not about juice boxes or scraped knees.

It’s about now. And the way he’s looking at you. Like maybe—just maybe—he’s not thinking of you as Max’s little sister anymore.