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The first sign that Lando Norris is in Monaco is the noise. Not literal noise—he’s too expensive for that. It’s the shift in atmosphere.
A restaurant suddenly “fully booked” after they somehow find him a table anyway. Security guards standing straighter. Girls in designer heels pretending not to stare. Men twice his age laughing too hard at whatever he says.
A gravitational pull.
You notice it immediately from the hotel balcony three floors above the casino terrace.
And then you notice him. White linen shirt. Sunglasses despite the late hour. Leaning back in his chair like he owns the principality.
Which, financially speaking, maybe he does?
Your stomach drops so fast it actually pisses you off.
“No,” you mutter.
Your friend Clara looks up from her drink. “What?”
You point downward with the flat despair of someone spotting a natural disaster offshore.
“Oh,” she says carefully.
“Oh,” you mock. “‘Oh.’ Why is he here?”
Clara has the decency to wince. “It’s Monaco during race week idiot? He lives here.”
“Fuck.”
Below, Lando laughs at something someone says. Easy. Effortless. Pretty in that infuriating way rich men always are when they’ve never had to carry consequences for longer than a week. You turn away from the railing immediately.
Too late.
His head tilts upward. Even from three floors down, you know the exact moment he sees you. You can tell by the way he stills. Then smiles.
Not a polite smile.
Not surprise.
Recognition maybe?
Your jaw tightens.
“Oh my God,” Clara whispers. “Abort mission.”
“I’m not aborting anything.”
“You’re literally already walking inside.”
Because of course you are.
You spend the next hour trying very hard not to think about him.
The hotel suite is gorgeous, cream marble, gold fixtures, flowers that probably cost more than your car, but now it feels contaminated. Like the air itself has become smug.
You’re halfway through removing an earring when the doorbell rings.
Clara looks up from the couch. “If that’s him, I’m leaving through the balcony.”
“It’s not him.”
It is him.
Of course it’s him.
You swing the door open already annoyed, and there he is: leaning against the frame like he was invited, one hand in his pocket, the other holding your favorite takeout dessert from that little place in Nice you once dragged him to at two in the morning.
You stare at the box.
Then at him.
Then back at the box.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
“Hi, sweetheart.”
“Don’t call me that.”
His mouth twitches.
God, you hate that expression. That amused little look like your anger is something he gets to unfold carefully in his hands.
“You changed your hair,” he says.
“You crossed international borders to annoy me?”
“I flew in for work,” he replies smoothly. “Annoying you is just a bonus.”
Clara appears behind you, sees him, and immediately points at herself. “Actually, I just remembered I need to—”
“No,” you snap.
“Yes,” she says. “Good luck though.”
Traitor.
She slips out of the suite in under thirty seconds.
Lando watches her leave. “She’s always liked me.”
“She likes free paddock passes.”
“Which I can still provide.”
“You are unbelievable.”
“And yet,” he says lightly, lifting the dessert box a little, “you still haven’t slammed the door.”
You should.
You absolutely should.
Instead, you sigh and step aside just enough for him to enter, because apparently self-preservation is a skill you abandoned sometime last year. He walks in like he belongs there.
That’s the problem with Lando. Everywhere he goes, he belongs. Private clubs. Yacht parties. Paddocks. Penthouse suites. Your life. Even after you removed him from it.
He sets the dessert down on the counter with infuriating domestic ease.
“You still eat these when you’re stressed?”
“I was stressed before you arrived.”
“Mmm. Worse now?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” he says.
You blink. “Excuse me?”
His eyes flick toward you green and sharp and unfairly soft around the edges tonight.
“If you were completely over me,” he says, “you wouldn’t still get this angry.”
The audacity hits you like physical force.
“You’re insane.”
“And you still know me better than anyone.”
“That is not the romantic statement you think it is.”
He laughs quietly. The sound settles under your skin in a way you deeply resent.
You cross your arms. “How did you even know I was here?”
“Instagram.”
“I didn’t post the hotel.”
“You tagged the restaurant downstairs.”
Of course he figured it out.
Because Lando treats information like a competitive sport.
You narrow your eyes. “That’s creepy.”
“That’s observant.”
“That’s the same thing when rich men do it.”
He grins.
Actually grins.
Like this is fun for him.
Maybe it is.Maybe chasing you has become his favorite hobby now that racing isn’t difficult enough.
“You hate me,” he says eventually.
“Yes.”
“But you let me in.”
You open your mouth. Close it again. Because unfortunately, he’s right. And he knows it.
That’s the worst part about this prick, he knows exactly how far he can push before you break. His gaze drifts around the suite before landing back on you.
“You booked the penthouse next to mine, by the way.”
Your head snaps up. “What?”
“Mhm.”
“That is not possible.”
“Baby,” he says, almost pitying, “Monaco is small.”
You stare at him in horror. He shrugs one shoulder.
Then, devastatingly:
“You should’ve known I’d find you eventually.”
—
The next morning, you wake up to pounding on your hotel door.
Not knocking.
POUNDING.
You drag yourself out of bed with all the grace of a dying victorian woman and yank the door open ready to commit a felony.
“WHAT—”
A hotel employee smiles nervously beside a cart overflowing with breakfast.
Behind him stands a suspicious Lando Norris wearing sunglasses and a black hoodie like a cartoon disguised fool.
“Morning.”
You stare.
Then at the cart.
Then back at him.
“No.”
The employee hesitates. “I can bring it inside—”
“No.”
Lando tilts his head. “You haven’t even seen what I ordered.”
“I don’t care if Christ himself made the pancakes.”
“I added extra strawberries.”
You begin shutting the door.
His hand lands flat against it immediately, apparently upper-body strength arrives free with Formula One contracts.
“Move.”
“You used to love breakfast in bed.”
“You used to text me back.”
He gasps softly like you slapped him.
“That was below the belt.”
“You deserve below the belt.”
The hotel employee is now staring at the floor with the exhausted expression of someone mentally drafting a resignation email.
Lando sighs dramatically. “Fine. I’ll eat it myself.”
“Good.”
“In your suite.”
“Get out.”
That actually makes him laugh.
A real laugh this time, head tipping back slightly, shoulders shaking.
You hate that your stupid traitorous brain notices how tired he looks underneath it.
Not physically tired.
Run-down.
There are shadows under his eyes even behind the sunglasses.
His voice sounds rougher too.
You narrow your eyes. “Are you sick?”
“No.”
“You sound like tuberculosis.”
“I’m fine.”
He immediately coughs into his fist.
You blink slowly.
He blinks back.
“…that didn’t happen,” he says.
“You literally just coughed.”
“No evidence.”
“You are such a man.”
“Thank you.”
“That was not a compliment.”
The hotel employee finally clears his throat. “Should I…?”
“Leave it,” Lando says.
“Take it away,” you say simultaneously.
The poor guy looks between you like he’s watching divorced parents fight over custody.
Lando pulls out his wallet. Not even subtly. Just reaches into the pocket of his hoodie and produces a terrifying amount of money.
You point aggressively. “Don’t you dare financially overpower this situation.”
Too late.
The employee suddenly becomes very interested in leaving the cart there.
Traitor.
“Have a lovely morning,” he says quickly before vanishing down the hallway.
You stare after him in disbelief.
Lando pushes the cart inside triumphantly.
“I hate capitalism.”
“You hate me.”
“That too.”
He parks the cart by the windows overlooking the harbor like he’s staging a luxury lifestyle photoshoot.
There’s fresh fruit. Pastries. Coffee. Pancakes.
And, annoyingly—
Your exact coffee order.
“You’re creepy,” you inform him.
“You’re predictable.”
“You remembered my coffee after six months?”
“I remember everything about you.”
The words land harder than they should.
Annoyingly sincere.
You recover quickly. “That’s because you’re emotionally unwell.”
“Mmm. Probably.”
He says it so casually you almost choke.
“You admit that?”
“I think we’ve moved past denial at this point.”
You watch him pour coffee with sleepy movements, hoodie sleeves pushed halfway up his forearms. He looks less like an international sports star and more like some random twenty-something guy who accidentally wandered into a five-star hotel after a bad night out. Then he coughs again,longer this time.
You narrow your eyes. “You are sick.”
“I’m literally not.”
“You look pale.”
“I’m British.”
“You are the tannest British person I know?”
“Jesus.”
He presses a hand dramatically to his chest. Then immediately regrets it because it triggers another coughing fit. You sigh heavily.
“I cannot believe this.”
“What?”
“You flew over here carrying the Black Plague.”
“It’s a cold.”
“You’re infecting all 8 people of Monaco.”
“Worth it.”
You glare at him. He smiles weakly over the rim of his coffee cup.
There’s something deeply irritating about the fact that even sick, even exhausted, he still carries himself like the room naturally bends toward him.
“You should be in bed,” you mutter before thinking better of it.
His eyebrows lift instantly.
“You volunteering?”
Your soul leaves your body.
“Actually I hope you die.”
“That’s harsh.”
“I said what I said.”
He grins again, but slower this time. Softer.
And for one terrible moment, he looks exactly like the version of him you used to love.
The one who’d stumble into bed at three in the morning after race weekends and pull you against his chest half-asleep. The one who only got quiet when he was tired enough to stop performing. The one you miss despite every effort not to. Your expression hardens immediately.
Nope.
Absolutely not.
You point toward the door. “Leave.”
“Mean.”
“Leave, plague rat.”
“I brought you breakfast.”
“You brought me Hantavirus.”
He sighs like you’re difficult.
Then he reaches into his pocket and tosses something onto the counter.
A paddock pass.
Your eyes narrow instantly.
“No.”
“Didn’t ask.”
“I’m not going.”
“You are.”
“I genuinely would rather drown in the harbor.”
“Mhm,” he says. “Wear something nice.”
You stare at him in outrage as he starts toward the door.
“How are you still this annoying?”
He pauses in the doorway.
Looks back at you.
Smiles lazily.
“Because you still let me be.”
And then he leaves.
Leaving behind:
- the breakfast
- the stupid paddock pass
- and, somehow, his cologne still lingering in your suite like emotional property damage.
You look down at the pass. Then toward the closed door. Then toward the harbor outside.
“God,” you mutter to yourself.
A beat passes.
The pancakes do smell good though
—
By day three in Monaco, you come to a horrifying realization:
Lando Norris is either haunting you or unemployed.
There is genuinely no third option.
You see him everywhere.
Not in a dramatic cinematic way either.
In an annoying way.
Like a persistent luxury-brand ghost.
You leave your hotel at noon wearing sunglasses and feeling like maybe soaking in the sun will solve everything.
Today is simple:
- coffee
- shopping
- absolutely no Lando
That’s it.
That’s the mission.
You make it exactly fourteen minutes.
The café by the marina is quiet, tucked between designer storefronts and expensive silence. You’re halfway through ordering when the barista smiles brightly and says:
“The usual for your boyfriend too?”
You freeze.
“…my what?”
A familiar voice answers from directly behind you.
“Oat latte. Extra shot.”
Your eyes close.
Slowly.
Like opening them again might undo reality.
It does not.
Lando stands there in a white baseball cap and dark sunglasses, hands in the pockets
of his shorts, looking entirely too pleased with himself.
“You have GOT to be kidding me.”
“Morning, sweetheart.”
“It is one in the afternoon.”
“Mhm.”
The barista beams at the two of you with the enthusiasm of someone witnessing a rom-com in public.
“We missed seeing you together!”
“We’re not together,” you say instantly.
“At the moment,” Lando adds.
You whip around. “At the moment?”
He shrugs.
The barista nods sympathetically at him.
At him.
As if you’re the unreasonable one.
“You know what?” you say flatly. “Actually I’m leaving.”
“You haven’t gotten your coffee.”
“I suddenly lost the ability to enjoy things.”
Lando follows you outside immediately.
Of course he does.
The Mediterranean sun reflects off the harbour while your ex-boyfriend strolls beside you like this is a normal interaction between two people who definitely did not end their relationship in a screaming match six months ago.
“You’re in a good mood today,” he says.
“I hope your phone falls into the ocean.”
“That’s not very nice.”
“You’re stalking me.”
“You posted this café yesterday.”
“I posted the coffee.”
“And the location.”
“That is NORMAL behavior.”
“And showing up is my normal behavior.”
“You hear how insane that sounds?”
“No, because you say it every day now.”
You stop walking so abruptly a tourist nearly crashes into you.
Lando stops too, annoyingly calm.
“You cannot keep appearing everywhere.”
“Can’t I?”
“No!”
“Why?”
“Because we broke up!”
“Mmm.” He considers this. “Still feels dramatic.”
You stare at him in disbelief.
“Dramatic?”
“You threw a shoe at me.”
“You deserved worse.”
“You cried after.”
“I hate you.”
“Not convincing.”
God.
God, he’s infuriating.
There’s something uniquely awful about how comfortable he is around you still. Like the breakup only happened administratively. Like he simply declined to participate.
You resume walking faster.
He matches your pace easily.
“You know what your problem is?” you mutter.
“I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
“You think because people forgive you eventually, you never have to actually change.”
That finally lands.
Tiny pause.
You notice it immediately because unfortunately you spent years learning his microexpressions like a second language.
But it’s gone just as quickly.
He glances toward the street ahead. “You still wear the ring.”
Your hand instinctively curls shut.
Damn it.
The ring on your index finger. The stupid Cartier one he bought you during a trip to Paris after you jokingly said rich people jewelry all looked the same.
You never stopped wearing it because:
- it fits perfectly
- taking it off would feel significant
- you’re weak
“It’s a ring,” you say defensively.
“It’s my ring.”
“It was a gift.”
“You kept it.”
You hate that his voice softens when he says things like that. Like he can’t help hearing hope in every tiny detail.
“You are exhausting.”
“And yet,” he says lightly, “you still haven’t blocked me.”
“That’s because you’d probably contact Interpol.”
“I know a guy.”
A laugh escapes you before you can stop it. Instantly, his head turns.
Every single time he manages to make you laugh, even accidentally, he reacts like he just won something. It wipes the amusement right off your face.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Look pleased with yourself.”
“But I am pleased with myself.”
“I made one facial expression.”
“A positive one.”
“It was involuntary.”
“Still counts.”
You groan and turn toward the crosswalk before he can see the smile threatening at the corners of your mouth. This is exactly how he gets you. Not grand gestures. Not money. Not charm. Tiny moments. Tiny familiarities. Tiny reminders that no matter how hard you try, some part of you still fits around him too naturally.
You hate it.
You hate him.
Behind you, Lando says casually:
“So dinner tonight?”
You nearly walk directly into traffic.
“NO.”
“Okay,” he says easily. “Tomorrow then.”
You spin around while he keeps walking backward down the sidewalk, grinning under the Monaco sunlight.
“You are insane!”
“Text me later!”
“I’m not texting you!”
“You will when you can’t open the wine bottle again!”
Your mouth drops open.
“How do you even know—”
He points finger-guns at you.
Then disappears into a waiting black car at the curb like some billionaire cryptid returning to the wild. Leaving you standing on the sidewalk in stunned silence.
A beat passes.
Then another.
Your phone buzzes.
You look down.
Lando bellend:
buying you a corkscrew as we speak x
—
Monaco at night feels expensive. To be fair it also feels expensive in the daytime, your brain is mush.
The streets glow gold under the lamps, polished cars sliding through narrow roads like sharks through dark water. Somewhere below the cliffs, music spills out from a yacht party you absolutely weren’t invited to and absolutely wouldn’t attend even if you were.
For the first time all week, you’re alone. Actually alone. No friends. No crowded restaurants.
No sudden British man appearing over your shoulder like a well-dressed sleep paralysis demon.
Just you, the warm sea air, and silence.
It’s nice.
You exhale slowly as you walk past rows of luxury storefronts already closed for the night, heels clicking softly against the pavement. Finally. Peace.
Then headlights flash once behind you.
You stop immediately.
Because of course you do.
A sleek black McLaren 720S rolls smoothly to the curb beside you.
Clean.
Glossy.
Obnoxiously expensive.
The passenger window lowers.
And there he is.
Lando Norris leans one arm against the steering wheel, silver watch glinting under the streetlights, looking offensively good for someone actively ruining your quality of life.
You stare at him through the open window.
“No.”
He blinks once. “I didn’t even say anything.”
“You were going to.”
“I was going to ask if you wanted to get your nails done.”
You stare.
“At eleven-thirty at night?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
He nods thoughtfully like he expected this outcome.
“Okay.”
A beat passes.
Then:
“You hungry?”
“You are unbelievable.”
“You’ve said that before.”
“You keep materializing beside me like a side quest.”
“That’s kind of mean.”
“You tracked me down in a supercar.”
“You like the car.”
Damn him.
Because yes.
You do.
Lando always loved that about you, that you actually cared about cars beyond “wow shiny.” You knew models. Engine notes. Racing history. The first time you correctly identified one of his teammate’s cars from sound alone, he’d looked at you like marriage planning was already underway.
You glance at the 720S despite yourself. Midnight black paint. Perfect condition.
Probably freshly cleaned by someone paid more than your annual salary.
“I saw that.”
“I hate you.”
“You’d hate me less inside the car.”
“You sound like a murderer.”
“Bit harsh.”
He taps the steering wheel lazily. “Get in.”
“No.”
“You’re walking alone.”
“I’m capable of surviving independently.”
“Mhm.”
The thing is, Lando’s never pushy in the way that actually scares you.
He’s pushy in the way that makes you want to throw him into the Mediterranean.
Annoyingly calm. Annoyingly confident. Like he already knows how this conversation ends.
You cross your arms. “Why are you even driving around right now?”
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“And im supposed to fix that?”
“Well… Yes?”
His honesty about that is genuinely unhelpful.
A black Ferrari passes down the street, engine snarling. Your eyes flick toward it automatically. Lando notices. Of course he notices.
“You looked offended,” he says.
“It sounded bad.”
“It was a V6.”
“I know.”
A grin spreads slowly across his face.
“There she is.”
“Don’t.”
“The little car snob thing—”
“I am not a car snob.”
“You just judged a Ferrari by sound?”
“Sounded horrible.”
“You’re so attractive when you’re mean.”
You physically recoil. “Ew.”
He laughs quietly.
The city lights reflect across the windshield, softening his face for a moment. He looks tired again tonight. Hoodie sleeves shoved up, hair messy, posture loose in that boneless way he gets after long travel days. You remember suddenly, vividly,sitting in passenger seats beside him at impossible hours of the morning while he drove nowhere in particular just because he liked having you there.
The memory irritates you instantly.
“You need hobbies,” you inform him.
“You were my hobby.”
“Oh my God.”
“Too much?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.” He pauses. “You were my favorite hobby.”
You make a sound of genuine suffering.
He smiles.
Then coughs once into his fist.
You narrow your eyes immediately. “You’re still sick?”
“I’m fine.”
“You look malnourished.”
“That’s just my face.”
You step closer to the car before common sense can stop you. His eyes flick up immediately. Suspiciously attentive. You lean slightly through the open window, studying him. There’s a faint flush high on his cheekbones. His eyes look tired.
You grab his jaw suddenly.
Lando freezes.
Actually freezes.
His pupils widen in shock as your hand presses against his face.
Warm.
“You have a fever,” you accuse.
For one catastrophic second, neither of you move, the street noise fades into the background, your hand against his skin. And there it is again, that awful shift in him whenever you touch him unexpectedly. Like every defense mechanism quietly powers down.
You immediately let go.
Disaster.
“I was checking your temperature.”
“Mhm.”
“You are ill.”
“you were worried.” he says carefully, eyes still on you,
“I was conducting medical research.”
“You held my face.”
“You’re making it weird.”
“You make me weird.”
Your expression flattens instantly. “I’m leaving.”
Before you can turn away, he speaks again.
Quieter this time.
“Get in the car.”
You hesitate.
Not because you want to.
Obviously not.
But because it’s late. And he’s looking at you with that stupid softened expression again. And despite everything, despite all your efforts, some ancient instinct in your chest still associates him with safety. He notices the hesitation immediately. Of course he does. His mouth curves slightly. Not cocky this time. Almost fond.
“C’mon,” he says gently. “I’ll take you home.”
You should say no.
Instead, ten seconds later, you’re sliding into the passenger seat muttering:
“If you kill me, I’ll be really upset.”
Lando starts the car.
“Baby,” he says smoothly, “if I wanted you dead, I wouldn’t have memorized your coffee order.”
You stare out the windshield.
“…I need you to understand how serial killer that sounded.”
His laughter follows you all the way down the coastline.