frédérique

xxi totally chill and cool and normal about oscar piastri

[p1astritruther]

frédérique. twenty one. she/her. op81 all the time, ln1 occasionally. Nice To Each Other (ln1 x reader).

[piastriprincess]

someone to hold me down ¹ ⸻ lando norris x reader .

featuring  lando  norris  ,  love  island  au  ,  strangers  to  friends  to  lovers  ,  slow  burn tw  cheating  (in  the  love  island  sense)  ,  slight  carlos  sainz  slander  for  the  plot word  count 17.8k (part one) author’s  note  yeah  once  again  i  have  literally  no  excuse  for  this  one  .  probably  THEEE  most  self  indulgent  fic  i’ve  ever  written  as  i  am  proudly  the  world’s  biggest  love  island  fan  .  during  my  catchup  on  love  island  uk  this  year  ,  i  started  thinking  about  this  interview  and  then  the  idea  of  lando  on  love  island  just  burrowed  into  my  brain  and  refused  to  leave  me  alone  . this is part one of two and since i've made you all wait so long part two will be coming tomorrow, monday august 25 !! as  always  let  me  know  what  you  think ,  and  my  1k  celebration  is  still  open  ,  so  if  you  liked  this please  feel  free  to  send  in  a  request  !!  title  is  from  came  here  for  love  by  sigala  ! playlist listen to nothing beats a jet2 holiday here !

You’ve officially been a Love Island contestant for about five minutes, and you’re already questioning every life decision that led you here. 

You didn’t even sign up for this. No, that was the work of your friends back home, a completely twisted group response to your bad breakup cooked up over one too many mimosas at a brunch you’d missed because you were crying too hard. When they told you they submitted an application for you, you laughed. You had a real job, one that involved spreadsheets and quarterly reports and tasteful business casual sets. You’d spent most of your adult life trying to avoid situations involving tequila-fueled meltdowns and catfights over semi-pro footballers with clockable hair transplants. You didn’t even watch the show. 

And yet here you are, standing outside a Mallorcan villa in your nicest bikini with a mic pack strapped to your ass and your heart pounding in your throat. 

“Think we’ve still got time to run?” Lily says as the two of you walk up the driveway together. The way she’s widening her eyes makes her look even more like a Disney princess, if that’s possible. You only just met the girl when the two of you stumbled out of matching Jeeps, but something about her sensible wedges and the way she’s clutching her suitcase like a lifeline make you feel a little less out of place. It’s comforting to know there’s a kindred spirit here, assuming neither of you bolt before the producers usher you into the house. 

You glance down at your own white-knuckle death grip on your suitcase. “Normally, I’d say we could make it to the gate before security tackles us, but not in these heels.”

She laughs, a bright sound that does absolutely nothing to hide the nerves beneath. “Guess we’re stuck humiliating ourselves in HD.”

“Guess we are,” you reply, smiling. When you walk through the doors, you catch your reflection in the sliding glass, and it looks more like you’re baring your teeth for battle. 

The villa stretches out in front of you, an imposing monstrosity of cobbled limestone and manicured gardens. Producers have clearly been studying the Instagrams of people much cooler than you, because everything here looks like it was designed to be photographed for a brand trip. The infinity pool gleams, jewel-like, in the center of the backyard, those stupid expensive flamingo floats that seem to crop up like a rash at every hen party you’ve ever attended bobbing lazily on its surface. Bright magenta and yellow beanbags are dotted strategically over a lawn so green it can only be artificial, leading up to the infamous white marble firepit.

In the distance, the ocean sparkles, Photoshop-perfect. You think absentmindedly that somewhere under all the cheeky neon signage telling you to eat, sleep, crack on, repeat! and the garish fluorescent photo panels the producers have slapdashed together, it's probably a beautiful house.

“Oh my god, the last girls are here!” a high-pitched voice screams from behind you, and without warning you’re swept into a swarm of tanned arms and blinding smiles and a cloud of coconut sunscreen so big it could probably melt the ozone layer all over again. 

Names come at you rapid-fire; you’re confident you’ll remember absolutely none of them in ten minutes. There’s Samie, a bubbly blonde primary school teacher who gives you a terrifyingly firm hug. Then George, a financial analyst from Norfolk who seems to have lost his shirt the first second he could. Oscar hangs back from the crowd a bit, flicking his swoopy bangs out of his eyes like he can’t quite decide if he wants to say hello to the two of you, but Gemma, a stunning brunette girl with a full sleeve of tattoos up her arm, bats her lashes and starts chattering away like you’ve known each other for years. 

And then there’s the smile. 

It’s the kind that stops you in your tracks, bright and boyish, almost too big for the face it comes on. A nice face, objectively — tan, deep dimples, eyes the color of seaglass framed by the kind of lashes that men never appreciate enough to deserve.

“Hey, I’m Lando,” the face says, extending a hand that’s warm when you shake it. You realize it’s not just the smile: there’s something disarming about him, the way he seems genuinely curious about you rather than just sizing you up as a potential couple option.  

“Nice to meet you, Lando,” you say, surprised to find you actually mean it. “What do you do?”

“Content creator,” he says cheerfully. “Mostly travel and lifestyle, but y’know, a bit of this, a bit of that. Nothing too serious.”

It feels like the words flip a switch inside you. Of course he is. You can just imagine him in the fluoro room where you’d filmed your intro clips, smiling into the camera with that same ridiculous grin: Hi, I’m Lando, I’m twenty-five, I’m an influencer from Glastonbury. My type is… a girl who doesn’t take things too seriously. I’m looking for… a bit of fun this summer, and we’ll see where things go. 

“Sounds fun,” you lie politely. But you’ve dated fun before — fun just broke your heart, actually. Fun is messy, unpredictable, has you riding high until it leaves you when the going gets tough. Fun is not the plan this summer. No matter how nice of a smile it has. 

“What about you, then?” he asks, eyes twinkling. If he’s seen your walls go up, he’s not showing it. “Let me guess. Something that requires actual qualifications instead of knowing which ring light angle makes a hotel breakfast look most appetizing?”

You smile despite yourself. “Something like that.”

“Brilliant,” he says, with no trace of irony. “Let me guess. Spreadsheets? Data? Proper grown-up stuff, I reckon.”

“As opposed to your improper not-grown-up stuff?” you ask, the words coming out more teasing than you intended.

He grins. “Exactly. Though I’ll have you know I take my not-taking-things-seriously very seriously indeed.”

He’s charming, you’ll give him that; there’s a kind of effortlessness to his chat that probably works wonders on most girls. But you’re not most girls. Not anymore. 

You’re opening your mouth to respond when you hear it — the familiar ding! of the Love Island phones. “I’ve got a text!” Lily cries, pulling out her newly issued villa phone. “Islanders, it’s time for your first coupling ceremony. Please gather around the firepit immediately. Hashtag love at first sight, hashtag crack on,” she reads. 

“Here we go,” you mumble under your breath, glancing around nervously at the other islanders. Half of them you haven’t even properly spoken to yet, and ten minutes from now you’ll be coupled up with one of them.

“Well, it was nice to meet you,” Lando says, grin still playing at the corners of his heart-shaped mouth. “May the odds be ever in your favor, and all that.”

“Bit dramatic. This isn’t the Hunger Games,” you reply, even though your heart is thumping heavily in your chest. 

He’s already walking away, but he turns, flashing you that devastating smile one more time as he calls over his shoulder. “Isn’t it?”

The firepit looks even more intimidating up close. They’ve arranged you on stone benches that look like they were nicked from the world’s most expensive spa, boys on one side and girls on the other. The host struts in, eerily gorgeous in a shimmery dress that probably costs more than your rent with a smile that manages to be welcoming and predatory all at once. You can’t look too hard at her; you find yourself scanning the shadows, instinctively hunting for the cameras you know are lurking somewhere. From across the fire, Lando waggles his eyebrows at you before jutting his chin at a bush, where you finally catch the sun glinting off a barely visible lens.

“Hello, my beautiful islanders!” the host trills, and you snap back to attention. “Hope you’re all settling in nicely to your new home. But before you get too comfortable, we should tell you we thought we’d shake things up a bit this year.”

Your stomach drops to your ankles. You thought you knew what to expect, but of course there’s a twist. There’s always a bloody twist.

“This year, instead of choosing your own couples, you’ve been matched by our experts based on your applications,” the host continues. “They’ve analyzed your answers, your partner preferences, and your relationship histories to create the perfect matches.” She pauses, clearly relishing the collective anxiety rolling off of the ten of you in waves. “So let’s see who you’ll be sharing a bed with tonight, shall we?”

She pulls out the first card with theatrical flair. “Gemma, your perfect match is… Charles.” One of the guys you didn’t get the chance to speak to steps forward, a tall brunette with the kind of messy hair that tries to look effortless but probably took forty-five minutes and half a tub of pomade to achieve. He murmurs a hello with an accent you can’t quite place and she meets him with a bright smile, looping her arm through his as the host continues.

“Nicole, you’ll be paired with George,” the host says next. A stunning redhead with perfectly contoured cheekbones practically glides across the decking like she’s walking Paris Fashion Week. George lopes towards her, what he lacks in grace made up for in enthusiasm. They shake hands with awkward politeness, standing next to Gemma and Charles.

“Lily, your perfect match is Oscar,” the host reads, and you squeeze your friend’s hand tightly. She shoots you a quick glance, something almost like relief flickering over her face as she walks carefully around the firepit. Oscar gives her a shy smile, and they hug quickly before standing together. Even across the deck, you can see the identical pink creeping up both of their cheeks.

“Samie, you’ll be paired with Lando.” The blonde practically bounds off the bench, beaming at Lando. He smiles back with the same ease you already recognize, and she links her arm through his.

“Which leaves our final couple, you and Carlos,” the host says, smiling kindly at you. When you look across the firepit, the boy you’ll be sharing a bed with for at least the next week is already walking towards you. 

You send a mental thank you to your friends, because he’s exactly what you would have imagined if you’d filled out the application yourself — tall, tan, dark hair, big brown eyes that crinkle at the corners when he smiles warmly at you. “Hello,” he says as he reaches you, and you catch the hint of a Spanish accent that makes the simple greeting sound like poetry. 

“Hi,” you manage, suddenly very aware of the camera in the bush and the idea that your first conversation with a cute guy is going to be replayed on national television tomorrow night. He pulls you into a brief, respectful hug, your cheek brushing against his linen button-up.

“Don’t you all look cozy,” the host says, clapping her hands together. “Now, you’ll have some time to get to know each other. But remember, this is Love Island,” she adds, mischievous glint in her eye. “Surprises might be coming sooner than you think.”

She’s gone before you know it, producers trailing out behind her, and the group begins to disperse. “So,” Carlos says, hand resting on your back comfortably as he speaks in a tone low enough that it sounds like it’s saved just for you. “This is a bit odd, yes? I have never had my love life decided by people I have not met.”

You laugh as he leads you over to a daybed. “Definitely weird. Though I have to say, they could have done worse.”

“Could they?” He raises his eyebrows as he sits, something playful in his expression. “You do not even know me yet.”

When he pats the mattress next to him, you sit, legs crossed. “So tell me about yourself. Let’s see how well the relationship experts did.”

He launches into an introduction, leaning forward and talking with the kind of eye contact that makes you a little bit dizzy. He’s an architect from Madrid, living outside of Oxford; he’s athletic, the kind of guy who bikes to work every morning and plays padel matches with his coworkers. He’s smart, close to his family, reliable. You can already tell he’s the kind of man your friends will approve of and your mother would love. You glance away for just a moment, eyes scanning over the lawn. Lily and Oscar are deep in conversation by the pool, and in the kitchen, Lando is trying to teach Samie an elaborate handshake, waving his hands wildly through the air as she giggles. 

“Already scoping out the competition?” Carlos says, following your gaze with an amused smile. 

“What? No,” you protest, cheeks pink. “Just… people watching. Occupational hazard.”

“What is your occupation, then?” he asks, tilting his head. 

“Market analytics,” you explain. “I spend my life figuring out what people want before they want it themselves.”

“Ah,” he nods, leaning back on his elbows. “Useful in here. So you are studying us all like lab rats.”

“Maybe a little,” you grin. You're surprised by how easy it is to talk to him already, the way the conversation flows despite the knowledge that every word is probably being recorded. He asks all the right questions, admires your ambition in a way that feels genuine, doesn't glaze over when you get a bit too passionate about your work. His English is almost perfect, but there's something charming about the way he occasionally pauses to search for the exact right word, the slight Spanish inflection that makes even mundane topics sound more interesting. You barely realize how much time has gone by until the sun starts falling over the infinity pool.

“I hate to say it, but I think the experts might know what they are doing,” Carlos says, brushing his shoulder against yours.

“Don’t jinx it,” you scold, smiling as you say it. “I have to admit, it’s going better than I expected.”

He gasps, putting a hand to his heart. “You wound me.”

“You know what I mean,” you say gently. “It’s mental, isn’t it? To get matched up with a complete stranger on a reality TV show and expect it to work out?” You glance around the villa, cameras winking at you mercilessly from the shadows. “But somehow…”

“Somehow it might work,” Carlos says softly, slipping his hand into yours. His palm is stable, steady, the kind of touch that feels like a promise. It’s all exactly what you wanted.

You think.

About a week into villa life, you begin to understand why people sign up for this.

It’s not just the endless sunshine, or being surrounded by beautiful people 24/7, or the fact that your biggest decision every day is whether to wear the blue bikini or the orange one. There’s a strange instantaneousness to everything that you love. Every moment feels weighty and important. Conversations that would normally take months surface over breakfast, and you find yourself genuinely caring about people you met five minutes ago. 

Your relationship with Carlos has been nice. Really nice, actually. He makes you cafe con leche every morning, a tradition you’re starting to enjoy even more than the simple mint tea you used to prefer. He cuddles you at night, holds your hand during dinner. You’re taking things unbearably slow, in Love Island terms — you haven’t even kissed yet, outside of pecks during challenges. But he never pushes you for more than you’re comfortable with; there’s something refreshingly mature about the way he approaches things, like he’s letting you take the lead. It’s still early days, and you’re trying to let yourself trust again after the disaster of your last relationship. Somehow, in the safety of him, you think you might get there. 

But it’s the friendships that have surprised you the most. 

You knew you and Lily would get along, but she’s become more like a sister over the past week; the two of you had hidden out on the terrace together in the middle of Charles and Gemma’s third screaming match of the week, and spent the evening giggling and trading dry one-liners. The two of you have been attached at the hip ever since — that is, when she’s not wrapped up in Oscar. The two of them are almost sickeningly sweet together, and you can tell that the dreamy look he gets on his face every time she even glances his direction is going to melt her heart before long. 

Samie was more of a wild card, but you’ve become fast friends too. She’s got an infectious energy that makes everything fun, even mundane villa chores. But she’s also the one who found you crying in the bathroom during a particularly homesick moment and sat with you for an hour without asking any questions. She has the purest heart, which is why it makes you ache to watch her try to make things work with Lando when it’s not quite clicking.

Which brings you to the biggest surprise — the boy who has turned out to be absolutely nothing like you expected.

“Twenty quid says Charles and George get distracted halfway through and start showing off for G,” Lando says, poking you in the side. You’re both sprawled on one of the daybeds near the pool while the boys line up at the edge for a race. Georgia, the new bombshell in question, is sitting close by, long legs swishing in the water. 

“Not taking that bet,” you respond, rolling onto your stomach as you watch Carlos adjust his position, all focused intensity as he prepares to dive. “Those two share one brain cell. And it’s on holiday, too.” 

“Somewhere very far away,” he agrees solemnly. “Probably got a budget flight to Koh Samui with its other brain cell lads. Gonna have a proper fiesta, maybe meet a nice nerve ending and have a summer fling…”

You cackle, loud and unfiltered. “Stupid,” you say, wiping a tear from your waterline, and Lando smiles like making you snort with laughter was his entire agenda for the day.

“Ready, set, go!” Georgia calls then, and the boys dive in. Well, Carlos and Charles dive — George plugs his nose and jumps, so he’s already half a lap behind by the time he surfaces.

Carlos starts pulling ahead almost immediately, arms cutting through the water in clean, efficient strokes. “C’mon!” you call, cupping your hands around your mouth as he swims towards your end. 

“Showing off for his girl, isn’t he?” Lando says lightly, bumping his shoulder against yours. 

“He’s just competitive,” you say, but you can’t keep the smile off your face. “But yeah. Maybe a little.”

“Good for you,” he says, and when you look over his eyes are glued to the race like it’s the Olympics. “Carlos, I mean. He’s good for you.”

Your stomach twists at the flatness of his tone. You’re not sure what to say, how to be grateful for your own connection without feeling like you’re rubbing it in the face of two of your closest friends here. It’s not Lando and Samie’s fault things haven’t clicked between them. 

“Thank god I didn’t take the bet,” you say instead, bumping his shoulder back and pointing to the pool. Charles has started showboating, doing a stroke that is definitely not regulation as he passes Georgia. 

Lando looks over at you, eyes crinkling at the corners as he tries not to smile, and then like clockwork the two of you dissolve into giggles. “Oh my god. Called it,” he wheezes, watching as Charles realizes he’s fallen behind even George and swiftly tries to course-correct. “What an absolute muppet.”

“Nah, look at Gemma,” you gasp through your giggles, tilting your head across the lawn towards the gym where the brunette is doing an increasingly aggressive set of burpees, pretending not to stare murderously at Charles in plank position. “She’s actually going to kill him.”

Lando grins. “Do you think his murder will make Unseen Bits?” he teases, just as Carlos touches the wall, hauling himself out of the pool. He’s grinning triumphantly, water streaming off his body in rivulets. 

“Did you see, cariño?” he calls out, slightly breathless as he jogs over to the two of you. “I won!”

“We saw, champion,” you tease, tossing him the towel he’d left at the bottom of the daybed. “Beating Dumb and Dumber. Very impressive.”

He ignores the towel, picking you up and sweeping you into a damp hug that makes you shriek. “Mi premio,” he says to Lando, grinning smugly.

“Carlos, ew, stop, you’re all wet,” you protest, wriggling in his arms. 

“Worth it for the win,” he corrects, kissing you on the temple, and you beam up at him. From the corner of your eye, you see Lando look away.

“Am I interrupting?” a honeyed voice says from behind you, and when Carlos spins around with you still in his arms, Georgia’s standing there, perfectly posed and undeniably gorgeous in a way that makes you acutely aware that this is the third time you’ve worn this bikini already. “Just wanted to pull Lando for a chat.”

Lando flicks a glance from you and Carlos to Georgia. “Yeah, alright,” he says, sitting up straighter. “Shall we?”

She smiles and grabs his arm, pulling him toward the beanbags in the center of the lawn. You realize with a sinking feeling she’s positioning the two of them directly in Samie’s eyeline; you can see your friend frowning all the way from the kitchen.

“Good for Landito,” Carlos mumbles against your neck, but you’re only half-listening, watching as Georgia throws her head back laughing at something Lando’s said. He hasn’t actually made a joke, if the polite and slightly overwhelmed expression on his face is anything to go by. 

You hum noncommittally in response, motioning Samie over, and she bolts from the kitchen, ducking into the house and taking the long way around so she doesn’t look too obvious. 

Carlos sits the both of you down, finally loosening his grip, and you roll off his lap to face him. “You do not like Georgia,” he observes. Not a question, a fact. 

“I don’t not like her,” you lie. You’re not confrontational, and the villa is far too small for outright warfare, but there’s something about Georgia that’s rubbed you the wrong way since the moment she stepped in the villa. You don’t trust someone so calculated, someone who treats people as either obstacles or opportunities. And you definitely don’t like exactly how clear she’s made number one on both those lists. 

Carlos raises an eyebrow at you, and you sigh. “Okay, fine. There’s just… something. I don’t know. She’s very strategic.”

“Most people here are.”

“Not like her,” you say, watching Samie emerge from inside just as Georgia leans closer, resting her hand on Lando’s thigh. 

To her credit, Samie manages to keep her face from crumpling until she makes it to the daybeds. “You two enjoying the show?” she says as she sits down next to you. Her voice is carefully controlled, but you can see the hurt flashing in her eyes.

“You okay, hun?” you ask softly. 

She lets out a hollow laugh. “Brilliant. Just brilliant. Why does Georgia get more than friendly bants out of him? God, what am I doing wrong?”

“I’m going to go,” Carlos whispers, clearly uncomfortable with the girl talk he’s about to be swept into if he stays. He presses a kiss to your cheek as he gets up, wandering over to George and Charles, and Samie sniffles as she watches. 

“Aw, Sam,” you sigh, sneaking a look over at the beanbags again. You can see Lando glancing around like he’s trying to see if anyone is watching the conversation, but he’s engaging nevertheless, giving Georgia that easy, charming smile of his. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I keep thinking maybe if I just try harder, or give it more time, something will click,” she says, and there’s an unsteadiness to it that makes your chest ache. “But he treats me exactly like he treats everyone else. Like a mate.”

“He cares about you, hun,” you say gently.

“I know,” she sighs. “I just don’t think it’s the way I want him to.”

You’re about to respond when Georgia squeals from the middle of the lawn. “I’ve got a text! Islanders, it’s time for a challenge that’s all about following your heart. Girls, you’ll be blindfolded. Boys, you’ll enter one by one and kiss the girl you’re most interested in getting to know better. But here’s the twist: we won’t reveal who kissed who. Hashtag love is blind, hashtag secret admirers!” she screams, voice rising to a fever pitch.

The reaction is immediate and completely chaotic: Gemma declaring loudly that she better get a kiss, which you suspect is entirely for Charles’ benefit; Oscar wrapping an arm around Lily and whispering something in her ear that makes her blush; Georgia pulling out a tube of gloss and coating her lips, loudly smacking them together to blot them. From across the lawn, Carlos sends you a wink, and you feel a surge of relief to be with someone so uncomplicated.

“What if no one kisses me?” Samie whispers, face bloodless.

“Then they’re idiots,” you say fiercely, throwing your arm around her shoulders. But your stomach is already twisting again with anxiety for her, because you can see exactly what she's seeing: the way the coupled-up boys are already gravitating toward their partners, the way Georgia is practically radiating confidence, the brutal mathematics of five kisses for six girls.

You think this might be the moment that breaks everything wide open.

The setup is ridiculous and dramatic, which you suppose is sort of the point. They’ve arranged the girls in a circle on the lawn, and the six of you stand at attention as they slip gold headphones over your ears and a ridiculous silk eye mask over your eyes. The world goes dark, and for a moment, all you can hear is the pounding of your own heart. Without your sight, it feels like every other sense is heightened; you can smell Gemma’s coconut sun cream from across the lawn and the faint scent of jasmine from the trees outside. Even with the headphones on, before long, there’s an unmistakable sound of someone settling tentatively in front of you, feet scraping against the grass.

He leans in slowly, hand cupping your face and thumb brushing gently over your cheekbone before soft lips meet yours. It’s a nice kiss, sweet and warm, and you can just hear the small sound he makes as he presses more firmly against your mouth. His other hand rests lightly on your hip until he pulls away, brushing his lips over your forehead before he disappears. 

You barely have time to process the kiss before there’s another set of footsteps weaving their way through the circle. You’re expecting them to keep moving, to hurry past you. 

You’re not expecting a second kiss. 

There’s no hesitation this time. Whoever it is, he’s on you immediately, lips crashing against yours with an urgency that nearly knocks you off your feet. There’s something about the kiss — not just technique, though the guy clearly knows what he’s doing. It’s something deeper, something that sparks through every nerve ending in your body. You find yourself pressing closer, pulling him into you, and the way he sighs and threads his fingers into your hair in response sends heat burning straight through you.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard. His forehead rests against yours, just for a moment, and you have to resist the wild urge to pull him back in again, to lose yourself in him. But like a flash, he’s gone, leaving you literally and metaphorically in the dark.

It had to have been Carlos. The passion, the spark — that was him showing you how he really feels, when you’re not holding back from him. The way your body responded to him, the electricity, is exactly how you imagine it feels to kiss the right guy, the magical, elusive one for you. It felt like falling off a cliff and coming home, all at the same time. 

You barely register the rest of the boys making their way around the circle. All you can think about is The Kiss.

When you pull off the blindfold, the afternoon sun is blindingly bright. You blink rapidly, letting your eyes adjust as you begin to catch expressions around the lawn. There’s Carlos giving you a soft smile, eyes sparkling. Lily, cheeks pink and looking absolutely radiant. And devastation on Samie’s face as she squeezes your hand like she’s trying to hold herself steady and whispers, “I didn’t get any kisses. Not a single one.”

“What?” you breathe, the words snapping you out of your daze. While you were basking in the magic of that second kiss, your friend was getting systematically passed over by every single boy in the villa.

“It’s fine,” she says quickly, bottom lip trembling. “I just — just need a minute.”

She’s gone before you can stop her, walking towards the villa with her head held high and shoulders shaking. 

“Bloody hell, she’s dramatic,” Gemma says, not bothering to lower her voice.

Lily’s by your side before you can say anything in reply. “Don’t. Let’s just go check on her,” she says gently, and you nod. 

The two of you find her in the glam room, staring into her vanity mirror and aggressively applying concealer under her eyes. “Sam, we’re so sorry,” you say, sitting next to her and wrapping your arms around her. 

Lily sits to the other side, rubbing her back. “Totally,” she agrees.

“It’s fine,” Samie says, voice tight as she drops the Beautyblender. “I mean, it’s not, but it is what it is, right? Can’t force someone to fancy you.”

“It doesn’t mean they don’t fancy you,” Lily says quickly as the other girls start filing in. “Maybe they were being respectful. Or maybe they were nervous, or —”

“Lily,” Samie stops her, gentle and firm, classic kindergarten teacher tone. “You don’t have to make excuses for them. I’m a big girl. I can handle the truth.”

“Well, the truth is that they’re idiots,” you soothe, petting her blonde curls. “All of them.”

“I didn’t get one either, Samie,” Nicole says quietly from the other side of the vanity tables, and the room falls into an uncomfortable silence. You can feel the divide immediately — those who got kisses and those who didn’t, and the guilt of being on the other side of that line.

“Wait,” Georgia says suddenly, mascara wand stopped midair. “If two people didn’t get kissed, then someone got more than one. Who got kissed twice?”

There’s silence, and you can feel the heat creeping steadily up your neck. What would be worse: to tell the girls a truth you know will hurt, or lie right to your friends’ faces?

“I did,” you say finally. The admission hangs heavy in the air, Samie’s shoulders tensing under your touch.

“Lucky girl,” Georgia says, smiling just a little too sweetly. “I’m pretty sure I know who mine was. Very familiar energy, if you know what I mean.”

“Georgia,” Lily says, cutting a glance between Samie and Nicole, who are both studiously avoiding eye contact with anyone. 

“What? I’m just saying, it’s nice to be properly appreciated —”

Samie stands, grabbing a towel and storming out of the room. The door slams shut behind her as Nicole lays on the ground, groaning and holding a pillow over her head. 

“Awkward,” Georgia sing-songs, finally applying her mascara. 

“Oh, bore off, G,” you bite out before you can think better of it, leaving the room to follow your friend.

Dinner is more subdued than usual. You’d finally managed to calm Samie down enough to get her dressed and ready for the evening. She and Nicole both put on brave faces, but there’s something brittle in both their expressions that makes your chest tight. You’d pulled Georgia to apologize for snapping at her, too; she seemed mollified by your groveling, but there’s still a tense veil drawn over all the girls. It’s as if someone’s liable to explode if you put a foot wrong, so you’ve all just decided not to speak much at all. The boys are completely oblivious, of course, making jokes and chattering on about football as if they didn’t turn the villa upside down hours earlier.

As night falls, you’re about to go check on Samie when Carlos’ arm sneaks around your waist. “Can I pull you for a chat?” he teases, pinching your waist. “Just us?”

You smile, relieved. In all the chaos, you’d almost forgotten about the good part of the challenge, the way Carlos had tilted your whole world on its axis with that kiss. “I’d really like that,” you say, leaning into his touch as he leads you over to the firepit. 

You sit beside each other, and it’s quiet as you listen to the soft sound of the water lapping against the pool walls. “Quite a day,” he says finally, thumb stroking over your knuckles. 

“Definitely,” you sigh, relieved he broke the silence as you rest your head against his shoulder.

“How was the challenge for you?” he asks, and there’s a note of nervousness to his voice that thrills you a little.

“It was alright,” you reply coyly.

“Just alright?” he laughs, wrapping his arm around you. “I was hoping for a better review.”

“It was a nice kiss,” you smile. Understatement of the year. When your mind wasn’t occupied by the drama of the afternoon, you haven’t really stopped thinking about it.

Carlos tilts his head. “Just one kiss?” he says, curiosity in his voice. 

“Yup,” you hear yourself say, and you’re immediately confused by your own words. Why did you just lie? 

Carlos hums, wrapping his arm around you. “George is not saying who he went for, in the challenge,” he says, leaning in conspiratorially, like it’s all a fun game. “I thought maybe he had kissed you.”

“No, just you,” you repeat, doubling down. Your heart is beating faster now, and not in a good way. “Nothing too dramatic for me. But really nice.”

He smiles, and it’s so genuine and warm that your guilt feels like it doubles in size. “I was thinking, cariño, maybe we could have our own little challenge here,” he says softly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, and the butterflies erupt in your stomach. 

“I think I’d really like that,” you murmur. 

“Good,” he whispers, cupping your face in his hands as he leans in. “Because I’ve been wanting to do this since the moment I met you.” He leans in and finally, finally presses his lips to yours, and —

You should be melting into him. You should be burning from the inside out. But as his lips move against yours, sweet and tender, realization crashes over you like you’ve just been launched headfirst into the pool.

This is the first kiss. The perfectly pleasant, entirely forgettable one. Which means the person who set your world on fire wasn’t Carlos at all.

When you break apart, Carlos is already smiling, eyes twinkling as he looks at you. “What’s your review? Better than the challenge?” he asks. 

You manage a smile, mind still reeling. “Much better. This was real.”

“Exactly,” he says, pulling you into his side. “No games. Just us.”

You focus on the warmth radiating from his body, trying to process what just happened. It was a lovely kiss, really — genuine and romantic. It wasn’t The Kiss, but that’s okay, isn’t it? Maybe you’re overthinking it. Butterflies die eventually; this is steady, reliable, what you’ve always wanted. And you like Carlos, you really do. He’s kind and handsome and patient, and there’s something there. You know there is. 

If you think about that second kiss and who gave it to you all night, nobody needs to know.

When the text comes the next morning declaring a recoupling on the horizon, you’re not shocked. It’s been nearly a week, and there was enough drama stirred up by the challenge for the producers to know they’ll have good material to work with. What’s surprising is that Lando listens to George read out the announcement, and instead of celebrating with the other boys on the lawn, turns on his heel and promptly disappears back into the villa.

You find him on the terrace, remembering something he’d said about how he used to hide out in the treehouse his dad built him when he was a kid and figuring the higher you could go, the better. He’s curled into the corner of the sofa, hands pressed to his face, looking like he hopes the pink and purple throw pillows will swallow him whole. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” you say gently. 

He looks up at you, and the expression on his face is so pitiful it makes your heart twist. “Think you’re overpricing them.”

You sit, folding your legs beneath you, and go for a teasing tone. “You really are a drama king, aren’t you? Built for reality TV.”

“Oi,” he pouts exaggeratedly, throwing his feet into your lap. “Be nice. I’m emotionally fragile right now.”

You raise an eyebrow when he plays along, a surge of pride rushing through you at managing to make him feel slightly less horrible. “Why are you stressed? It’s boys’ choice. And you’ve got Samie and Georgia both desperate to couple up with you.”

“That’s the problem. I just —” he blows a gust of air out of his cheeks, flopping backwards onto the couch. “I know no matter what I do, I’m going to disappoint someone. And they’re both great girls. I just don’t know what I want.”

“Okay, then what do you not want?” you say, shrugging your shoulders. 

He pushes up on his elbows to look at you. “Huh?”

“Market analytics, remember?” you explain. “Sometimes it’s easier to rule out the bad options.” You lean back against the pillows, the afternoon sun warming your skin as the rumblings of a classic Charles and Gemma fight begin below. “For example: I definitely don’t want that,” you say, pointing a finger down through the bougainvilleas on the railing.

Lando snorts. “Don’t think anyone wants that. Even them.”

You smack him lazily on the shoulder. “C’mon,” you say. “Try it.”

“I don’t want to hurt Samie,” he says. “She’s sweet, and a great girl, and she deserves the world.”

“Good. That’s good,” you confirm, as encouraging as you can muster when there’s so obviously a but coming down the highway that’s liable to turn Samie into romantic roadkill. “What else?”

Lando’s quiet for a moment, fidgeting with the throw pillows. “I don’t want to pick someone because it’s safe, or because everyone else thinks I should, or because it’s convenient. That’s not what I’m here for.”

“What do you mean, convenient?”

“You know, the easy choice,” he says, pushing his sunglasses off his face into his unruly curls. His eyes look impossibly green against his tan. “Someone who’s obviously interested. Someone who fits what everyone expects.” He squints, even though the sun is behind him. “Someone who won’t make things complicated.”

“Someone who’s right, not someone who’s easy,” you echo.

He sits up. “Exactly. I dunno. I’m scared I’m just convincing myself into a choice because it’s what I should want. Not what I actually want.”

You’re quiet for a moment, thinking about Carlos and his smile and the way he holds you at night, like he’s afraid to break something so precious. “Sometimes the easy choice and the right choice can be the same thing.” 

His eyes don’t leave your face. “What if they’re not? What if you know they’re not?”

There’s something in his voice, vulnerable and almost aching, that makes you hesitate, heart beating hard in your chest. “Then I guess you have to decide what you’re willing to lose.”

“Right,” he says, jaw tightening. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

“Is this about Georgia, specifically?” you ask tentatively. “Because honestly, Lan, if you want my opinion, I think Samie —”

“It’s not —” he interrupts, like he can’t hold the words back, and then catches himself mid-sentence, straightening his spine and smiling too stiffly to be real. “Nah, I think you’re right. Good points, mate.” He slides his sunglasses back on, and you have the strangest feeling that behind the lenses, he’s looking right through you. “I should get ready. Boys have been bugging me to help them with their recoupling speeches.”

You wince. You can picture Charles and George down there, complete messes. You don’t even know who they’re going to pick, and honestly, they probably don’t either. “Yikes,” you say, feeling grateful you have Carlos. 

“Yeah,” Lando says, standing before you can say anything else. “Good luck tonight. Not that you need it,” he adds hastily, disappearing through the sliding door. 

By the time evening rolls around, there’s a nervous energy humming in the air, and it’s not just you who’s feeling it. Lily curls and recurls a strand of hair, biting her nails even though she has to be the safest girl in the villa. Gemma sprays her perfume over the entire glam room, claiming it’s her emotional armor for the ceremony. You take your time with your makeup, more to have something to do with your hands than anything else. 

The air feels heavier than usual around the firepit. You stand between Samie and Lily, squeezing both their hands. 

“It’s gonna be okay,” you whisper to Samie.

She smiles ruefully. “Easy for you to say, hun.”

The host’s voice cuts through the air with her trademark mix of warmth and gravity. “Islanders, tonight’s recoupling will be boys’ choice. One by one, you’ll step forward and choose the girl you want to couple up with. The girl not chosen will be dumped from the island immediately.” She smiles at the six of you before turning her attention to the boys. “Oscar, you’re first.”

Oscar stands, clearing his throat. “Right. Uh, I want to couple up with this girl because this whole thing is sort of mental, but she makes it feel like the most normal thing in the world. She’s kind and smart, and it’s only been a week, but being with her feels like I’ve known her forever. I’m excited to spend more time with her. So the girl I’d like to couple up with is Lily,” he finishes with a soft smile, as if anyone is surprised. Lily practically floats over to him, absolutely glowing. 

“Carlos, you’re next,” the host says, and he stands. You’re not nervous, really; you know he’s going to pick you.

“I would like to couple up with this girl because she has been lovely to get to know this week,” he says softly. “From the moment she stepped into the villa, she’s been one hundred percent herself, good and bad, whether it’s checking in on people when they’re feeling down, or getting cranky before her coffee in the morning. She’s funny and passionate and real. And stunning, obviously. All the small things add up to a perfect package.”

When he says your name, you walk around the firepit to him, and when you lean up on tiptoe to kiss him, your heart jumps promisingly. The two of you sit, Carlos’ arm resting around your shoulders. 

“The speech was good?” he whispers to you as the host starts speaking again, inviting George to stand. 

You nod, something warm blooming in your chest. It really was a nice speech — you had no idea he was paying so much attention to the details in here. “Perfect, actually.” 

“I’m glad, cariño,” he says, dropping a kiss to your hair and giving Lando a subtle thumbs up.

Halfway through George’s speech, which is (of course) a paragraph longer than everyone else’s, you realize it’s not about Nicole. You actually gasp out loud when Gemma’s name falls from his lips, bracing yourself for a tirade, but she actually looks somewhat pleased as George ducks his head to kiss her cheek. 

Charles, on the other hand, is clearly fuming. When he’s called next, he can’t stop cutting glances at George, and his speech is filled with entirely perfunctory statements about how the girl he wants to pick is ‘nice to chat to’ and ‘seems like a good person.’ He picks Nicole, and if nothing else, the two of them are striking together. You’d whisper a joke to Lando about how their hypothetical children would be the world’s first baby supermodels if he didn’t look positively queasy staring across the fire at Samie and Georgia.

“Lando, you’re up,” the host says softly, and you know this is the moment the producers are counting on, the chance for the first real drama of the season. 

Lando shifts, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I’d like to couple up with this girl because she’s made things feel different since she came in. She’s sharp. Funny. Surprising. And proper fit, too. Someone told me earlier to make the right choice, not the easy one,” he says, voice soft now, and his eyes dart to you for the most infinitesimal, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment. “And I guess this girl is the right choice, right now. So the girl I’d like to couple up with is… G.”

Georgia beams, practically launching herself into his arms, but you’re not really looking. You’re staring at the girl standing alone across the firepit, watching her heart shatter in real time.

“Samie, as you have not been chosen, you are now single and have been dumped from the island,” the host says gently. 

The blonde swallows hard, nodding. “Right then. It’s been a lovely week, guys,” she says, a slight wobble to her voice. The next few minutes blur together: there’s tears as she packs her bag, hugs, phone numbers written with eyeliner exchanged on scraps of tissue paper. Samie handles it with grace, emotion kept simmering beneath a placidly beautiful surface.

“I’ll miss you so much, hun,” you sniffle, throwing your arms around her as she finishes zipping her suitcase.

“Love you, babes,” she whispers back, returning the hug. “Don’t let these boys mess you about. Just — follow your heart, ‘kay?”

The other islanders are gathered at the bottom of the stairs when she’s finally ready to go. Samie starts making her way down the line, hugging and chatting with everyone as she tugs her suitcase behind her. You find your way back to Carlos, heart heavy at the thought of losing one of your first friends here. 

“She will be okay,” Carlos says, squeezing your shoulder. “She’s a tough girl.”

You watch as Lando hugs her and she whispers something in his ear. His cheeks go slightly pink, eyes wide, and then he nods, ruffling her hair with a sad smile. “Yeah, she is,” you say, though your chest feels tight as you wave her out.

The doors slam shut behind her, and for a moment, even with Carlos’ arm around you, the villa feels just a little bit colder. 

You find them lounging on the beanbags, bickering like brothers.

“I’m telling you, mate, you can’t just eat the green ones and leave the rest,” Lando says, chucking a grape at Carlos. It bounces off his chest, skittering across the lawn towards the pool.

“Why not, cabrón? They taste better,” Carlos says, plucking another off the stem and tossing it into his mouth.

The banter is easy, practiced, like they’ve been friends forever instead of three weeks. “Swear you’re spending more time with Carlos than I am, Norris,” you interrupt, flopping onto the beanbag between them. “Do I need to be worried?”

Carlos’ hand finds yours immediately as he laughs, wide and warm. “He has his hands full with Georgia, I think.”

“Ooh. How is that going?” you ask, waggling your eyebrows as Carlos takes another grape and feeds it to you. It’s not like you don’t know — you all share a bedroom and Georgia's a loud kisser. Plus, you spotted the suspicious bruise where his neck meets his jaw as soon as you sat down, but you want to hear it from him.

Lando’s ears go pink. “It’s good,” he says cheerfully. “Nice girl.” He pauses. “Carlos only brought G up so you’d distract us from the actual argument. Which I was winning, by the way. If you only eat the greens, it leaves these half-eaten grape carcasses behind. You’re ruining the aesthetic of the fruit bowl, mate.”

“Spoken like a true influencer,” you say teasingly, and something passes across Lando’s face like an errant cloud in the endless blue sky above. 

Carlos squeezes your hand, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Not Landito. You know he does not just run around taking pretty pictures. He has a whole business.”

Lando groans, tipping his head back. The sun floods his face. “Don’t start —”

“It’s true,” Carlos says, looking far too pleased with himself. “Staff, sponsors, contracts. Everything. His job is more complicated than mine.”

You watch Lando, the way he seems to be actively trying to disappear into the beanbag rather than be the center of attention. “Seriously?”

“It’s not that big of a deal,” he mutters. 

“Not a big deal?” you echo, laughing in disbelief. “Lando, that’s so impressive. I thought you just, like, messed about in front of a camera.” Something shifts as you study his face, the picture you’d painted in your mind of a charming, polished surface tilting to make room for something messier, deeper, more real. 

He gives you a sheepish grin, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, most people do.”

“Guess I’ll have to start taking you more seriously, then,” you say, voice low. His eyes flick up to yours, quick and uncertain, cheeks going pink under your gaze.

“Are you actually serious right now?” Gemma’s voice carries through the air, and Lando bumps your shoulder and points across the pool to where she’s standing with her hands on her hips. George is lounging on a daybed with Max, one of the new bombshells, looking entirely unbothered.

“What?” he shrugs. “You asked what I thought about your story. I told you. Would you rather I just nod my head and agree with everything you say?”

Gemma opens her mouth, and you brace for an impact that doesn’t come. Instead, she tilts her head, studying George with sudden interest. “Actually, no.”

“Good,” George says. “That’d be awfully boring.” 

She actually laughs, and you watch the way their faces transform with unexpected softness. If you were to guess the story here, it’d be this: local girl meets her match.

“I give them two days before they start trying to drown each other in the pool,” Carlos pronounces.

“Nah,” you and Lando say at the same time, and he gives you a delighted smile before he continues. “They’re sort of weirdly perfect together.” You nod, feeling a strange sort of pleasure in being the only two in the villa tuned to the same frequency, like two stars aligning.

After that, the chat falls into the easy rhythm you’ve developed over the past few weeks; Lando starts talking about a trip to Madrid, and Carlos lights up about his hometown. From there, it’s all how perfect the weather will be, the places he wants to show you, the restaurants he wants to take you to when you visit. 

Except somewhere in the conversation, visit becomes… something else entirely. 

“My family has a beautiful place in the city,” he says, eyes bright. “There’s such incredible energy in Madrid. You will really love living there.”

You blink hard. “What?”

“Yes,” Carlos says patiently, like he’s speaking to a child who’s not quite catching on. “I am not planning on working for Vowles Designs forever. Someday I will go home. And it is not like you have anything tying you down to London.”

Lando goes very still on the beanbag next to you, watching the two of you with careful eyes. “I —” you start, then stop. Carlos is your type on paper; the kind of guy who makes perfect sense. So why are you hesitating? “I guess we haven’t really talked about what happens after the villa.”

“She is overthinking,” he says to Lando breezily, reaching for your hand. The touch feels safe, comfortable, easy. “Don’t worry, cariño. We’ll figure it out as we go. But Madrid is perfect for us.” Something about his certainty itches, like sand catching under your bikini straps. Does he really think it’ll be that easy for you to leave your world behind, to reshape your life entirely around him?

“I got a text!” Charles yells then, cupping his hands around his mouth, and for the first time the words feel like a relief.

You flip over on the beanbag so you can see him, sipping from your water bottle as he begins to read at the top of his lungs: “Islanders, it’s time to get each other’s pulses racing in tonight’s challenge, Hearts on Fire! Please head to your dressing rooms to choose an outfit to participate in. Hashtag fanny flutters, hashtag heartstopping!” 

Selecting outfits is more cutthroat than you’d anticipated; no one’s really taking the time to rifle through the rack that mysteriously materialized in the dressing room sometime in the past half hour, instead just grabbing whatever they can get their acrylics around. You’re nearly the last there, spotting what looks like a French maid outfit and horrifiedly grabbing whatever the other one is before Nicole can. It turns out to be a naughty nurse costume, emphasis on the naughty — it’s barely a scrap of fabric, designed to be unbuttoned halfway down your chest. At least there’s props, a stethoscope and thermometer to hide behind. 

“Trade me?” Georgia wheedles Gemma, who’s got a two-piece teal costume thrown over her arm. “I always wanted to be a cheerleader.”

Gemma tilts her head, considering Georgia’s costume, which is definitely meant to be a cat but is really just a skintight black leather bodysuit with a pair of Party City ears and a tail. “Fine,” she shrugs, shoving her pompoms at Georgia. “I’m more of a cat person, anyway.”

Lily’s pulling a comically large pair of wings and a halo out of a bag, as Molly, the other new bombshell, unearths sparkly red horns and a tail from an identical one. “Girl, we’re matching!” she giggles, pointing her pitchfork at Lily. 

“Fitting,” Nicole smirks from the other side of the room, clearly aiming for teasing but putting just a little too much bite into it. 

“Lily’s an angel?” Georgia laughs, peering over at the costumes. “Oscar’s gonna cream his jeans.”

Lily splutters. “Georgia! Oh my god. That’s not even —”

“Babe, please, it’s a good thing,” she continues matter-of-factly, teasing her hair and puckering her lips in the mirror. “The whole innocent, ‘I look like woodland creatures dress me in the morning’ angle clearly does something for him.”

Lily’s cheeks go red, covering her face with her hands, and you decide to jump in before things get any more ridiculous. “Anyone got any ideas on how to wear this?” you ask, waving the dress through the air. You know Georgia’s a sucker for any opportunity to style someone, and sure enough, it diverts her attention long enough for Lily to tuck the costume out of eyesight and give you a grateful smile.

The producers have decided the boys will go first, which on one hand means more time thinking about all the ways you might embarrass yourself on national television, but on the other hand means you spend less time in the costume, so it’s basically a wash. They promptly whisk you all out to the firepit, which has been completely transformed, red roses covering every available garden surface and cascading down the sides of the benches.

“Stay calm, ladies,” Gemma instructs, but next to her, Georgia’s practically vibrating in her seat. 

“Bring out the boys!” she chants, clapping her hands, and honestly, the whole thing is so nervewrackingly ridiculous that you can’t help but join in. She shoots you a surprised look that morphs into a pleased smile as the rest of the girls follow your lead. 

Some bass-heavy song starts pouring through the speakers, and Charles trots down the stairs in what looks like a leather skirt and a cape, a plastic sword in hand. You have no idea what he’s supposed to be, but he’s pulling it off. The firelight reflects off his skin, and you suspect the producers have subjected his chest to a fair amount of body oil. 

“Are you not entertained?” he calls when he gets to the edge of the deck, and it clicks. Gladiator. “Because I’m ready to enter your arenas.”

You burst out laughing. You’re not sure whether you’re hoping no one else will do an entrance line that cheesy, or everyone will.

Charles makes his way around the circle, moving with the confidence of someone who knows he looks incredible and has lost the ability to feel shame. His routine for you mostly involves moves with the sword and hip thrusting, neither of which set your heart racing too much, but you scream joyfully when he twerks for Molly, grinds against Gemma, and kisses up Nicole’s neck in quick succession. 

He bows when he leaves, and Molly fans at herself as you all giggle. The song changes, something with more of a sultry beat, and George jogs across the lawn in a pilot’s outfit, all starched tight white shorts and a short-sleeve button-up.

“Welcome aboard Russell Airways,” he says, grinning at you all. “Please fasten your seatbelts, because you’re about to experience some serious turbulence.” He promptly rips the shirt open, shimmying his long limbs and bare chest towards the six of you. He’s both more nervous and less coordinated than Charles, who is whooping from the balcony; he mostly focuses his attention on Gemma, picking her up as she wraps her legs around his hips. When he kisses her, you all cheer, and it seems to spur him on, pressing her down into the couch. He retreats up to the balcony after that, but not before he places his hat slightly askew on Gemma’s head.

“What a dork,” she mutters, but you’re surprised to see a blush coating her cheeks as she touches the brim gently. 

Max comes out next to a rap song you’ve never heard, dressed as a construction worker in a fluoro mesh vest, hard hat, a pair of distressed denim shorts, and work boots. “Get ready girls, I’ve got all the tools to get your hearts racing,” he calls, flexing his biceps. It’s all a little on the nose for a scaffolder, but he just about makes it work. 

He basically skips over Molly, since they can’t couple up, but from the moment he reaches Gemma, you can tell he’s bringing it with a higher level of intensity than the two that came before him. He takes her hand, dragging it down his chest, before he leans in and kisses her neck. “Someone’s grafting!” Nicole cheers delightedly, and he clearly takes it as encouragement, lifting her into the air before he sits, reversing their positions. She straddles him, squealing as his hands roam her curves. 

He makes his way down the line, approach more raw confidence than finesse. You have to hand it to him for trying with every girl, even if Lily looks like she wants to melt into the floor from the attention after he practically swings her around like a ragdoll. When he gets to you, he makes you hold the prop hammer above your head, swiveling his hips against yours without breaking eye contact. The whole thing is a bit much; you can feel your cheeks burning as you silently thank God that Carlos isn’t watching. When he jogs up the stairs to the balcony, you scan the couches for reactions, and smile when you see Nicole looking genuinely flustered.

The song changes again, some house music track this time, and Oscar makes his way down the stairs in a cowboy costume. “Howdy, ladies,” he says, and you can already see the blush on his cheeks. 

“You know what they say: save a horse, ride a cowboy,” you lean over to tease Lily. 

“Shut up,” she whispers back, but she’s watching Oscar run across the lawn in his chaps like it’s primetime television. 

For someone who is clearly mortified by the entire ordeal and looks like he’d rather die than dance in public, Oscar does a surprisingly okay job. He keeps it respectful, all two-steps and hat tipping, and when he clasps your hand in his and do-si-dos you around the firepit, you sort of just want to give him a hug. He saves Lily for last, and actually attempts some proper moves, scooping her into his arms and spinning her around before dipping her into a kiss. 

“So sweet,” Molly coos in a tone just this side of condescending as he leaves. You don’t think Lily notices; she’s watching him go like he just lassoed the moon for her personally. 

The music shifts, smooth and sensual, and you already know who’s coming next. This could only be Carlos, and when he appears at the top of the stairs, you know you’re in for it. He’s a firefighter in tight black shorts, red suspenders, and work boots, and even the ridiculous plastic hat can’t make him look anything less than incredible. “Time to turn up the heat,” he calls, and you whoop joyfully in your seat. 

He keeps things respectful with the other girls; maybe he can feel your gaze on him, bright and burning against his skin as he moves. He picks Lily up effortlessly, throwing her over his shoulder in a classic fireman’s carry and toting her around the fire. It’s Georgia next, skipping over you; he eases her to her feet and grinds against her briefly. Then he moves to Nicole, giving her a lap dance that has her fanning herself frantically. With Gemma, he goes playful, letting her grab the suspenders as he rolls his hips. By the time he gets to Molly, it’s a slow body roll, her hands sliding down his chest as he moves to the beat. There’s no lingering contact, no kisses — just enough heat to remind everyone he could have them wrapped around his finger if he really wanted.

Finally, he comes back to you, and it feels like the world narrows to just Carlos and the way he’s looking at you, raw with want. “You’re looking a little overheated, cariño,” he smirks, hands finding your waist, pulling you up from the bench and holding you close as he moves against you, slow and deliberate and absolutely filthy. 

When he finally kisses you, it’s desperate, aching, your hands tangling in his hair as he presses himself against you. The effect is overwhelming; you’re dazed when he pulls away, a satisfied smirk on his face. The boys on the balcony are whooping so loudly you can barely hear yourself think. You know you’re biased, but you’re not sure how anyone could top that.

Then a Megan Thee Stallion song starts blaring from the speakers, and Lando struts out of the villa in taped-up glasses, a sleeveless button-up shirt with a plaid bowtie, and suspenders holding up the tiniest pair of plaid shorts you’ve ever seen. 

“What’s up, ladies,” he grins, adopting a ridiculously dorky lisp, and you can feel the smile spread over your face before you can stop it. “Who wants to see my PHD?”

The boys are already laughing from the balcony, and Lando’s eyes sparkle as he approaches the firepit, the sound seeming to spur him on. He goes for Lily first, ripping the shirt buttons so the linen flutters loose around him and making her touch his abs. When he pretends to adjust his glasses and winks at her dramatically, she lets out a giggle.

You’re next, and Lando pulls a calculator from god knows where, approaching you as he types something with exaggerated concentration. “Check out my latest formula,” he grins, wiggling his eyebrows as he turns the device around so you can read the screen: 80085. 

“You are actually twelve years old, oh my god,” you say as he comes closer, placing one hand on your shoulder and the other on your hip, but you’re laughing so hard you can barely get the words out. 

He rolls his hips against yours, leaning forward to whisper in your ear: “Having fun yet?”

You’re so close you notice he’s wearing his actual glasses, with costume tape wrapped around the nose bridge, and something about it makes your heart thump in your chest. “Always with you,” you whisper back before you can stop yourself, and the smile he gives you in return is absurdly bright.

The moment is over quickly; he kisses you on the cheek and jumps up, skipping Georgia and moving on to Nicole. He hands her the calculator like it’s a reward before straddling her and grinding against her so exaggeratedly that it has her shrieking with laughter. Gemma’s next, and he keeps leaning into the bit, spinning her up from the bench with a playful tug and then shimmying his body down hers, the bowtie straining around the muscles in his neck. Molly gets a full show of body rolls, and it’s clear that he’s being totally unserious about it, but there’s something about his confidence that makes it all tick.

He finishes by doubling back to Georgia and lifting her effortlessly off the bench as she wraps her legs around his waist. When he kisses her, bouncing her against him with her hands tangling in his hair, you cheer with the others.

“Right, girls, time to return the favor!” Charles yells from the balcony as the boys jump around, high-fiving and chest bumping each other. 

Fifteen minutes later, you’re on your way to a panic attack. 

Like the boys, you’ll be going out one by one. You’re smack in the middle, which suits you fine. You’re already freaking out — going first or last would up the stakes exponentially in a way you know you definitely can’t handle. You can barely even look at yourself in the mirror; the short white dress hugs every curve dangerously and the red lace push-up bra has your tits sitting somewhere around your collarbone.

Lily goes first. Gemma follows her, wielding her tail like a whip. Then Nicole. You can’t see their performances, but you can hear the cheers, the laughter, all the boyish exuberance from outside as each girl dances, and it makes your palms sweat against the plasticky fabric. How are you going to compare?

“You’re up,” one of the producers says as you hear the music start back up and the moment you’ve been dreading arrives. They practically have to shove you out the door, but as you walk down the stairs on shaking legs, a thought occurs to you: Lando was silly and didn’t pretend to be sexy. He was completely himself, and it completely worked. 

You can do that. You think.

You saunter slowly across the lawn, swinging the stethoscope above your head like a lasso. “Hi, boys,” you say, popping the buttons one by one down your chest, and they whistle and howl accordingly, hyping you up. “I hear you’re in need of some medical attention.”

Carlos’ eyes are wide as you reach the firepit, raking over you unabashedly, but you head to the other side of the benches first. You have to make him wait, even if it kills you. 

Your decision means George is up first. “The love doctor has arrived,” you grin, wrapping the stethoscope around his neck and planting one foot next to his lap. You wind your hips, using the prop to pull him closer, and he splutters with surprise. 

Oscar’s sitting next to him, but that’s a no; it’d be like grinding on your awkward younger cousin. You blow him a kiss as you go by on your way to Max, and he gives you a little salute in return.

You sit on Max’s lap next, his hands encircling your waist as you pull the thermometer out of your bra and place it on his tongue. You wait a moment before taking it out of his mouth, winding your hips as you pretend to read it and affect a gasp. “Oh my god,” you say, small grin on your face as you fan yourself. “It looks like he’s got the hots for me.”

The boys absolutely lose it. Lando lets out a cackle, covering his mouth with his hands, and George literally doubles over, clutching his stomach as you move on to Charles. “What’s my diagnosis, doctor?” he says cheekily, grinning up at you with an eyebrow cocked. 

You grin, bracing your knees on either side of his waist, and his breath hitches. “Breathing seems… irregular. I think it might be terminal,” you say, pouting as you roll your hips. You glance over at Carlos; he’s staring, eyes fixed on you, and a current of something electric zips beneath your skin. “But don’t worry, I’m very experienced with bedroom — I mean, bedside manner.”

You kneel in front of Lando next, pulse racing under Carlos’ gaze. Taking the stethoscope from around your neck, you slide it from his heart down his abs to his hips. “Seems like I’m getting your blood pumping,” you grin, crawling up and bouncing your body against his in time with the music. To his credit, he moves his hips in time with you with a smirk on his face, eyes bright. “Or maybe something else pumping.” 

The firepit erupts, and you swear you can hear Gemma screaming from the balcony. “Absolutely ridiculous,” Lando says fondly as you straighten up, kissing his cheek. 

When you turn to Carlos, his eyes are molten. 

“My star patient,” you say, voice low and actually sultry in a way that surprises you as you reach your hand out to him. He immediately tangles his fingers with yours, something possessive and hungry in his touch. You pull him to his feet, and his hands immediately go to your hips, so close to you that you can feel your skin prickle. Once you’ve walked him back to the other side of the firepit, you place a hand on his chest and push, just slightly, and he falls back, hitting the deck and looking up at you as you drop slowly to the ground in front of him. 

“I think he looks a little sick,” you say, eyes glittering as you look towards the other boys. “What do you think? It looks like he might need mouth-to-mouth.”

The cheers are deafening as you slide on top of Carlos, straddling his hips. His chest rises and falls rapidly as his hands find your waist, gripping onto you like it’s the only thing keeping him on this planet. “Feeling better yet?” you tease as you lean down, lips just brushing over his.

“Not even close,” he murmurs, pulling you into a searing kiss, hands sliding up your back as you roll your hips against his. When you finally break apart, breathing hard, there’s something wild in his eyes, and you know you’ve put on a good show. You blow him a kiss as you get up, walking slowly across the lawn, and he holds a hand over his heart.

Carlos is still lying on the deck when you emerge onto the balcony, breathless, and the girls pull you into a hug. “You killed it!” Gemma squeals against your hair.

“Oh my god, I think I blacked out for the whole thing,” you giggle, letting the adrenaline of the moment drain out of your body. “How did yours go? Anything exciting?”

“It was kind of fun, actually? George looked absolutely gone for Gemma, as per. Thought he might have a heart attack. And Nicole was proper brilliant,” Lily chimes in. 

“You looked quite cozy with Charles there,” the redhead sniffs, ignoring the younger girl’s compliment as she turns her focus on you. 

Before you can tell her you’re very happy with Carlos and aren’t going to get your head turned by a guy who hasn’t cleaned his water bottle once in the three weeks you’ve been here, the music starts pounding through the speakers again. Georgia goes cartwheeling across the lawn, straight into a split that has the boys yelling before she even hits the deck. She’s got dancer’s confidence, all hair flips and effortless rhythm as she winds her hips in a way that makes your stomach twist. Molly follows with even more bravado, living up to her costume as she dances for everyone, even Oscar. By the time she makes it to Carlos, dropping her hips to the ground and sending him toppling back against the bench, hands behind his head, you feel ridiculous for ever thinking you could compete. You’ll be lucky if you even raised Carlos’ heart rate the most.

Once Molly’s finished, the producers summon the rest of you down to the firepit again. The air is buzzing with nervous anticipation; you find Carlos at the end of the benches, and the second you sit down his arm slides around your waist, grip tight as he pulls you possessively against his side. 

George’s phone buzzes and he pulls it out. “Time for the results. George, your heart rate went highest for Gemma,” he reads off his phone, and you clap, giving Gemma a thumbs up.

“Your heart rate went highest for Lily,” Oscar reads. “No shock there,” he adds with a grin. 

Max is next, and since he’s single you find yourself genuinely interested in who it’ll be. “Your heart rate went highest for Georgia,” he states, flicking a sheepish glance at Lando. 

“Fair play, mate, she killed that,” Lando replies, a wide, unbothered grin on his face. 

“Your heart rate went highest for Molly,” Charles says next, and Nicole goes deadly still. “Well, she was last!” he tries, but she doesn’t look at him, just keeps staring into the fire.

Lando unlocks his phone when it buzzes. “Lando, your heart rate went highest for —” He stops, blinking down at the screen like the words have gone fuzzy. “Uh, you,” he says, the tips of his ears going pink as he looks directly at you. 

Carlos’ arm tenses around you, and you laugh, a high-pitched, uneven thing. “Well. Thanks, Lan,” you say, voice hoarse. He just nods in response, rubbing the back of his neck. 

It’s back to the beginning, then: Gemma’s heart rate goes highest for George (which he seems immensely pleased by), Lily’s for Oscar, and both Molly and Nicole for Carlos. 

“Three out of six?” you whisper to him. “Save some sexiness for the rest of us, yeah?” He grins bashfully, and the tension in your chest loosens. 

Georgia goes next, and her heart rate went highest for Charles. Lando keeps a smile on his face, shrugging his shoulders like he couldn’t care less. Then your phone buzzes, and you read out loud: “Your heart rate went the highest for Lando.” 

Wait. What the fuck?

By the time the words process in your brain, the firepit has already erupted into chaos. Carlos doesn’t say a word, but the way he pulls his arm away from you feels like a statement in itself. Your cheeks are burning; you can barely stand to look at Lando, but when your eyes flick his way he’s already staring at you, eyes wide. 

“Interesting,” Georgia snarls, smile razor-sharp as the rest of the islanders thin out across the lawn, eyes pointed anywhere but the four of you.

You laugh nervously, heart rate higher than it’s been all night. “It’s just a challenge, G.”

“Is it though?” she says, eyes narrowing as her gaze bounces between the two of you. 

“C’mon, Georgia,” Lando says, low and soothing. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Right, of course it doesn’t,” she snaps, hand tightening around his arm possessively as she yanks him up. “Because nothing’s ever serious with you.”

You think you’re probably the only one who sees his expression crumple. He barely has time to shoot you an apologetic look before she pulls him away from the firepit, voice going shrill and carrying all the way across the lawn until they enter the villa. 

It’s just you and Carlos then, and the ache on his face makes you wonder how such a silly challenge could make everything so complicated. “So,” he says, posture rigid as he sits next to you. “Lando.”

You sigh. “Carlos. You went right before him. My heart rate was probably still going mental from that kiss. And Lando’s my friend, and he made me laugh. That’s it. It was just — weird timing.”

“Timing,” he echoes, voice hollow. 

“Exactly,” you say, tugging at his hand; he lets you intertwine your fingers with his, but there’s a vacancy to the act that makes you even more determined to convince him. “The whole thing is stupid anyway. You know there’s nothing between me and Lando. I bet those monitors aren’t even accurate.” 

You can see how badly he wants to believe you. But there’s still something stubborn in his expression, a suspicion that makes your chest tight with frustration.

“It’s just a game, Carlos,” you say softly. “I’m with you. One challenge result isn’t going to change that.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, staring into the darkness. The fire casts strange, angular shadows across his face. Then he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Sorry. I’m being stupid,” he says, resting his head against your shoulder.

“You aren’t,” you reply automatically, even though part of you kind of thinks he is. “I get it. But you don’t need to worry. You know that, right?”

He nods, skin warm against yours, and when he lifts his head to look at you there’s a hint of a smile on his face. “I know.” 

“Good,” you say, smiling back. “Now stop being daft about this stupid challenge and kiss me properly.”

He leans in obediently, and you meet him halfway. The kiss is soft, sweet, built to reassure. But even after everything, you can still taste the doubt on his lips. 

“We’re good?” you mumble into the kiss. 

He pulls away, but not before pressing one more kiss against the corner of your mouth. “We’re good. Bed?”

“You go,” you say, waving your hand. “Just gonna sit for a bit.”

You stay out long enough for the night to stretch, for the fire to turn to embers and die under your gaze. As you make your way back towards the villa, you catch a glimpse of movement in the kitchen. Lando’s standing at the stovetop with his back to you, shoulder tense as he watches the kettle boil. 

“Hey,” you whisper as you pad into the kitchen. 

He turns, and you’re surprised to see his eyes are rimmed red. “Hey.” 

“I’m sorry,” you start hesitantly. “About earlier. I should’ve said something to G, I think. Or to you. The whole heart rate thing was —” you pause, not exactly sure where you’re going. “I feel bad.”

He grabs another mug without asking, placing it next to his on the counter as the kettle begins to whistle. “Nothing to be sorry for. Not your fault the monitors are mental.”

“How are you holding up?” you ask, hopping onto a stool.

He shrugs, turning off the burner and pouring the water with a practiced hand. “G’s furious with me. Says I embarrassed her since my heart rate wasn’t fastest for her.”

Your eyebrows knit together. “But her heart rate went fastest for Charles.”

“Believe me,” he says dryly, sliding one of the mugs across the counter to you, “I pointed that fact out.”

You take a sip, the familiar mint taste soothing over your tongue. “I’m sure that went well,” you say, lips twitching before both of you lapse into exhausted giggles. 

“I dunno why she got so upset,” he sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “It’s not like those things are actually scientific.”

“That’s what I said to Carlos!” you say, and the way he understands you without explanation makes you feel like you can breathe properly for the first time since the challenge ended. “I mean, it’s so ridiculous. They literally design these challenges to stir up drama. I wouldn’t even be surprised if the results were rigged.”

“You mean reality TV isn’t real?” he says, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You laugh, and it hits then, suddenly and without warning — the terrifying certainty that sitting here in the dark kitchen with him, steam curling off your mugs, is the realest moment you’ve had in weeks.

“Georgia will come around,” you say firmly, shaking off the thought. “She’s going to feel some type of way. The whole challenge is made to mess with people’s heads. But you’re good together.”

“You think?”

“Look, G’s not one of my favorite people here. But you are. And she makes you happy,” you say, shrugging. “Things will get back to normal.”

Something flickers across his face then, but it’s gone too quick for you to analyze it. “What about you and Carlos? You okay?”

You sigh. “Yeah. He was like G, taking the whole thing a bit too serious, but we worked it out. He just needed a little reassurance that it was meaningless, you know?” 

“Meaningless,” he repeats cautiously, like he’s testing the word on his tongue. “Yeah. Right. Well, that’s good. Glad things got sorted.”

There’s silence for a moment, light from the neon signs glowing pink against his cheeks. “I’m glad I have you, you know?” you say eventually, almost a little shy, like you’re unlocking some small part of yourself just for him. “It’s just nice to have a friend here. Someone who doesn’t make everything so complicated.”

He watches you over the rim of his mug, eyes crinkling at the edges as he takes a long sip. “Yeah. It is,” he agrees, and the two of you finish your tea in a comfortable, peaceful quiet. 

“I should probably go. Carlos is waiting,” you say, getting up to rinse your mug in the sink. 

He nods, letting you brush by him as you turn the water on. “Thanks for this,” he says softly.

You look at him, and you can tell he doesn’t just mean for the tea. “‘Course. What are friends for?”

When you slip into bed next to Carlos, he pulls you into him, reassuringly familiar. You turn it over in your head like a mantra: it doesn’t matter what the monitor said. You know where your heart really is.

You just need to keep reminding yourself of that.

It takes you about a half second of consciousness to realize Carlos isn’t where you left him. 

Your eyes shoot open, and when the lights flicker on, you sit bolt upright in a cold and empty bed, eyes scanning the room in a mental tally. Six girls. No boys. Your friends forced you to watch enough of the show before you left to know what that means. 

Casa Amor has arrived.

There’s a beat of stunned silence, and then everyone starts talking at once — carefree laughter, confused murmurs, groggy protests that it’s too early for this. You push back the covers, adrenaline rising in your chest. Everything is gone. Even Carlos’ name has been scraped off his dresser. You can only hope you’ll be more permanent in his mind for the next four days. 

You might be a little bit in shock, because even though you were the first to wake up you’re the last to make it into the dressing room. The girls are already comparing the gifts the boys left behind; Lily’s slipping on Oscar’s leather bracelet with a soft smile on her face and carefully placing a photobooth reel of the two of them into her phone case while Georgia and Gemma shriek with laughter in the corner because apparently, Charles only left Nicole a pair of his boxers with a handwritten note ‘so you remember how fit I am, chérie’.

Neatly folded on your chair is Carlos’ gift: the navy hoodie he always throws on in the mornings, well-worn to the point of softness. It still smells like his cologne, and you smile and hug it to your chest, warm despite the AC blasting through the room. It’s nice. Nothing over-the-top, of course — that’s not Carlos’ style — but it warms your heart to know he was thinking of you, especially after all the tension last week with the heart rate challenge. You’re about to pull it on when your fingers brush unmistakably against a folded piece of paper in the front pocket.

Your heart leaps at the gesture, fingers scrabbling for purchase as you pull the scrap out. But when you unfold it, it’s not Carlos’ neat block handwriting; it’s something messier, rounder letters, script just uneven enough to feel sincere. 

i know you hate when people leave without saying goodbye, so… consider this my goodbye 4 now!! don’t spiral too much ya muppet, i’ll keep an eye on carlos for you xx - L

You read it once, twice, a third time, warmth spreading through your chest. Trust Lando to remember an offhand comment you’d made at least a week ago about your mum leaving for business trips without saying goodbye, how you hated waking up to find people you cared about gone. 

You fold it up carefully and slide it back into the front pocket, pulling the hoodie over your head. Today, you’re keeping both your gifts close to you.

You don’t even pretend to entertain the new boys, really. Franco tries to flirt with you, but he rolls his R’s the same way Carlos does, and you can’t stomach the conversation without feeling like you’re cheating, trying to replace something you haven’t even lost. Lily makes a half-hearted attempt to get to know one of the others, a gangly curly-haired boy named Ollie who’s awkward in a way that’s almost charming. But her hands keep fidgeting with her new bracelet, and when nighttime rolls around, you’re both on the daybeds, string lights twinkling above you as you curl up in Carlos and Oscar’s hoodies and hope against hope that they’re thinking about you too. 

Georgia, on the other hand, is having the time of her life.

She’s flitting between the new boys like it’s the first week all over again. First Yuki the sous chef is making her breakfast, and she’s giggling as he feeds her bites of pancakes on the terrace. Then she’s starting a splash fight with Liam in the pool, shrieking when he dunks her under the surface. All of it irritates you more than it should.

You catch her in the kitchen on day three, when you’re cleaning up from dinner. She flounces in, refilling her water from the spigot as you dry the dishes. “So,” you say as casually as you can, “where’s your head at, with all this?”

“Exactly where it should be,” she grins smugly. “I’m exploring my options, aren’t I?”

“But what about Lando?” you say, stacking plates in one of the cabinets.

“What about him?”

You flinch, turning back around to face her. “He really likes you, you know,” you say carefully. “And you’re going to get him dumped from the villa if you keep cracking on the way you are.”

She blinks at you, hand on hip. “It’s Love Island, babe. It’s not like I’m sending him to the guillotine or something. Honestly, you and Lils act like I’ve murdered someone every time I have a conversation.”

“It’s not about the conversation,” you scowl. “You’re leading someone on, G.”

Her eyes narrow just a little, and for a second, something colder flickers through her usual bubbly persona. “And you’re not?”

You stiffen. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She takes a long swig from her water bottle, then flashes you a saccharine smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Just don’t get righteous with me, babe. You’re not exactly the picture of honesty, so maybe worry about your own couple before mine.”

Before you can answer — or ask her what the fuck she’s on about, since you’ve been loyally sleeping on the daybeds all week — she turns on her heel and prances off like the conversation never happened. 

The words echo in your mind the entire night, long after the lights of the villa go out. You lie awake listening to the buzz of mosquitos and Lily’s snores, crinkling Lando’s note between restless fingers as your hoodie bunches uncomfortably under your cheek, until the morning sun bleeds golden over the island again. 

The villa’s strangely tense all day, everyone walking on eggshells like they know the end is coming. When the text comes to gather around the firepit immediately, it’s almost a relief.

Molly goes first, unsurprisingly; she wasn’t coupled with anyone before, so she’s had her pick this week. She goes with Yuki, who’s refreshingly outspoken for a Casa boy, enough that you’d wager he actually likes her and wasn’t just going for the only truly single girl. You give her a thumbs up, sending a silent thank you to the universe that you won’t have to eat any more of Charles’ sludgy overnight oats now that there’s an actual chef in the villa. Max high fives her when he comes back with Camilla, a mild-mannered nurse with the prettiest goddess braids you’ve ever seen; you like her immediately, as soon as she gives Molly a hug like she’s known her for ten years instead of ten seconds. 

Nicole’s after her, choosing Franco. Apparently the boxers hadn’t helped her remember Charles much at all. Not that he seems bothered, though — he comes strolling through the door with Chloe, a redhead with chic blunt bangs who looks like her natural habitat is chainsmoking outside a Parisian cafe with a sketchbook. They fit together, you suppose as you clap politely.

Gemma gets a text then, and you’re surprised to see her switch to Liam. He doesn’t seem her type, and you’d thought she and George were pretty solid. When he walks back in with someone on his arm, too, a stunning girl named Meg with glossy curls and legs for days who’s beaming like she just won the whole show, you think you must have misjudged. That is, until George starts staring daggers at Liam’s frosted tips and you clock the way Gemma’s smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. 

Georgia’s phone buzzes next. She stands up with a slight smirk, clearly reveling in the drama. “I’ve decided to switch,” she announces breezily, and you try to ignore the way your heart drops as she links hands with Jack, the Aussie PE teacher who’d been following her around like a puppy all week. 

A moment later, Lando comes bounding in, solo. You can see the familiar bright grin on his face from a mile away, which also means you can see the exact moment it falters when he registers Georgia seated next to someone else, the loss rippling through the air like an aftershock. 

“Happy for you,” he says to the two of them, exceedingly polite, and sits down at the edge of the firepit, knee brushing against yours as he stares straight into the flames.

Lily’s next, and you squeeze her hand supportively as she stands up. “I’m staying loyal to Oscar,” she says, twisting his bracelet nervously around her wrist. “Some things are worth waiting for.” The pause feels endless, until Oscar appears alone in the doorway with a bashful smile tugging at his lips. She bursts into tears the second she sees him, and he doesn’t even wait for the producers to text their OK before he sweeps her into a tight hug, both of them clinging to each other like there’s no one else in the villa. 

And then it’s just you, standing in front of the firepit with shaking hands and a lump in your throat you can’t seem to shake. “I came here to find something real, and I have,” you say, voice steady even if your heart is anything but. Your fingers toy with the sleeves of his sweatshirt, warm over your cocktail dress. “So I’ve decided to stick with Carlos.”

The wait feels like the longest thirty seconds of your life, until Carlos rounds the corner and even in your panicked state, you can see he’s alone. Relief courses through your body. He stayed loyal. You both —

He turns back, extending his hand. Another figure steps into view beside him, and you discover what it feels like to have your heart break in under a minute.

She’s petite, blonde, brilliant blue eyes, a nervous smile that suggests that she’s overwhelmed by the attention of the moment, uneasy with the way the girls seem shocked and the boys seem entirely unsurprised. Her name is Emma. At least that’s what you think she said. You can’t quite hear her over the ringing in your ears. Your face feels so hot you think you might genuinely overheat. It’s not helped by the fact that you’re still wearing his fucking hoodie. 

The moment stretches, warps, splits at the seams. You’re only pulled out of your daze by the familiar, cruel ding! of a text message beside you on the bench. You blink hard, not even remembering when exactly you sat down. 

“The two of you are now single and vulnerable,” Lando reads off his phone next to you, and you know exactly what that means. Vacation is over, in the most humiliating way you can possibly imagine. 

You take a deep breath, blinking back the tears gathering at your waterline. You can save them until you leave the villa, at least — long enough that Carlos won’t see you cry over him, over everything you thought you had before you let the rug get pulled out from under you yet again. 

And then your phone buzzes in your lap. 

You unlock it with shaking fingers, eyes scanning over the text. “But now you have a choice,” you read out loud, voice low and overly controlled. “You can either leave the villa immediately, or the two of you can stay in the villa as a new couple.”

You can hear the gasps, the low murmurs around you. But all you see — the first person you look to — is Lando. 

“It’s up to you, okay?” he says immediately, voice low, fingertips ghosting at your elbow. The firepit makes his skin glow golden. “Whatever you need. We can go right now.” 

Your eyes flick instinctively to Carlos, across the firepit. He’s not looking at you, instead staring at the decking under his feet with the level of intensity you’d imagined he would save for the newest copy of Architectural Digest. Lando catches your chin with his hand, gentle, and when you turn back to him his eyes are soft. “Hey. It’s not about him, yeah? It’s about what you want.”

You shake your head once, almost imperceptible, eyes wide with panic. “I don’t know what I want, Lan.”

The truth is, you never thought you’d be here. You’d been so sure you were coming back to something steady. To something real. To someone who was waiting for you, too. Not to a beautiful blonde ambush and a man who can’t meet your eyes.

“Okay,” Lando says patiently, thumb grazing your jaw like he’s trying his hardest to keep you anchored into the moment, out of your rapidly spiraling thoughts. “Okay. Market analytics, then. What do you not want?”

The question catches you off guard, words tumbling out before you can stop them. “I don’t want to go like this,” you whisper. “I don’t — I dunno, I don’t want him to think he’s won.”

Something flickers across Lando’s face. At first you think it’s anger, a flash of heat across his boyish features at the idea that both of you have been cast aside like nothing, like losers. But when you look closer, it’s something else entirely. Pride, maybe. Or recognition. Like he sees the fight in you because it lives in him too.

And then he smiles. 

“Good,” he says, throwing an arm around your shoulders. “Because I didn’t really fancy the idea of going home just yet.” His eyes are cold as he stares across the fire. “We’re staying. Think we’ve both got some unfinished business here, don’t we?”

There’s not much anyone can say after that. 

The second the ceremony ends, you bolt from the firepit — not knowing quite where you’re going, just trying to make it to the dressing room closets or the shower stalls or anywhere that has four walls and zero cameras so you can let out the tears that have been threatening to fall for the past hour.

You’re only halfway across the lawn when you hear it, that determined tone that you once found endearing and now makes your stomach twist with panic: “Cariño, wait.” 

Your body tenses, heart hammering against your ribs as you keep moving. “Please,” Carlos says, and he’s right behind you now. You silently curse the fact that you chose to wear stilettos; if you weren’t sinking into the lawn with every step, maybe you could have avoided this confrontation. “Can we talk?”

You would rather suck on Charles’ musty water bottle straw, actually. “Carlos, I —” you start, but he already has his hand on your elbow, spinning you to face him. He’s giving you the look that used to melt you, head tilted just so, softness in those big brown eyes like he hasn’t just stomped over your heart on national television.

“Just five minutes,” he says, voice low. “Don’t I deserve five minutes?”

You freeze, words cutting through you like a knife. He’s acting like you owe him something, like even after the humiliation ritual you’ve been through tonight, somehow you’re the one being unreasonable. You’d thought you’d gotten used to the weight of a million eyes on you, but you’ve never felt so small as you do right now under his gaze.

“Everything alright here?” Your head snaps to your left to see Lando approaching. His demeanor looks calm, but you catch his eyes scanning over the scene with sharp focus, taking in Carlos’ hand on your arm and your eyes, glassy with unshed tears.

“We’re fine,” Carlos snaps, and you blink in surprise at the shift in his tone — clipped and defensive, nothing like the easy banter you’re used to hearing between them. “Private conversation.” 

Lando raises an eyebrow, stepping closer to you, and you pull your arm out of Carlos’ grasp. “Not very private, mate,” he says coolly. “Since you’re doing it in front of the whole villa.”

Your gaze flicks between them, realization dawning. Whatever happened at Casa changed something, their fast friendship curdling into something bitter and unresolved. 

“This is between me and her,” Carlos says, hand slicing through the air like he’s swatting away a particularly unpleasant gnat. “It’s not your business, cabrón.”

“Funny thing about that,” Lando replies, positioning himself cleanly between the two of you, close enough that you can feel his presence like a shield. “When the girl I’m coupled up with clearly doesn’t want to talk to you and is trying to get away from you, it becomes my business.”

Carlos’ jaw tightens, hands clenching at his sides. “She’s a big girl. She can speak for herself.”

“I don’t want to talk to you,” you blurt, surprising yourself with how fast the words come out. 

He opens his mouth to reply, but Lando pipes up first, voice dangerously calm. “There you go. So here’s what’s going to happen now. You’re going to respect her decision not to have this conversation. And if you can’t do that, if you keep pushing when she’s clearly upset, then she’s going to go inside and us two are going to have a very different talk.” He smiles flatly, something final in it. “Are we clear?”

Carlos stares at the two of you for a long moment, eyes flashing, and you can see the moment he realizes he’s not winning this battle, not if it’s two-on-one. “Fine,” he spits, turning on his heel and marching back towards the firepit, posture rigid with frustration.

The second he stalks away, your lungs start working again, and you let out a shaky exhale. It’s like the whole villa was holding its breath along with you; you can hear the buzz of conversation around you kicking back up, islanders meandering across the grass again like someone hit a restart button on the night. Lando turns to you, all the fight draining from his expression in an instant. “You alright?” he says gently. “Want me to get Lily?”

You nod in response to his first question, even though you’re not sure it’s true. “Just want to go to sleep, honestly,” you manage. You’re not so selfish as to interrupt your friend’s happy reunion, even if your own evening has turned into a complete nightmare.

He glances over towards the rest of the islanders, then back to you. “Go,” he says, voice soft. “I’ll hold everyone off for a bit.”

Fifteen minutes later, you’re standing in the bedroom in your pajamas, staring at the beds like they might gain sentience and rearrange themselves out of pity. The producers, clearly hoping for some drama, have sandwiched the two of you directly between Carlos and Emma on your left and Georgia and Jack on your right. 

They’re all smiles as they filter into the room, no regard for the emotional chaos they’re creating as they giggle and flirt in voices that aren’t nearly hushed enough. You, on the other hand, are staring pointedly at the ceiling and calculating the odds of the universe taking mercy on you and striking you down with a lightning bolt.

Lando comes back into the bedroom dead last, hair damp from the shower. You watch as he comes closer, wait for the flicker of pain that crosses his face when he realizes the situation, but it doesn’t come. He just keeps his head down, taking his glasses off and neatly folding them on the nightstand before he clambers in next to you, like a bizarre sort of sleepover.

The lights snap off, and he promptly pulls the duvet up and over both your heads, cocooning the two of you in white cotton as he faces you with a deadpan expression. “Are we in hell right now?”

You exhale, rolling onto your side to face him. “I was thinking the world’s worst middle seat.”

“I’m going to have to full on pterodactyl screech if I hear another bed squeaking noise in surround sound,” he whispers faux-seriously. “Or if Carlos tries out the sexy Spanish whisper again. Like, it’s not that impressive, mate. We all know how to say mi amor.”

You laugh for real this time, sharp and surprised, tension finally loosening in your chest. You can tell he’s just trying to make you feel better, but it works. You think it’s the first time you’ve laughed in days. At least since the boys left for Casa. “Right? Though I think I’d take cheesy Spanish over a loud kisser. I mean, Georgia, babe. Does the whole room need to hear your lips smacking?”

Lando smiles, pleased and a little triumphant. “There she is. Thought I’d lost you for a minute.”

The silence stretches between the two of you for a moment. “D’you know what the worst part is?” you whisper, flopping onto your back. “I actually thought he was coming back for me. Slept on the daybeds the whole week. How pathetic is that?”

“S’not pathetic.” He shakes his head, heart-shaped mouth twisting down at the corners. “I get it. Thought Georgia and I had something, you know?” He laughs, humorless. “It took, what, three days? And she’s recoupled with someone taller, more muscular, less… well, less me, I suppose.” 

The defeat in his voice makes something crack white-hot and angry in your chest. “Less of a personality or a working brain, too,” you say, vicious on his behalf, and he musters up a half-laugh. “Lan, you can’t start comparing. You can’t do that to yourself.”

“Bit rich, coming from you,” he sniffs. “Saw you sizing Emma up from the minute she walked in on Carlos’ arm.”

You sigh, because for a guy who’s only known you a month, he’s annoyingly good at reading you. “Touché. I just… I never thought he’d recouple. I thought I knew him, you know?”

Lando’s voice is hard. “Clearly neither of us did.”

You glance over at him. “What do you mean?”

He sighs, tongue poking against the side of his mouth. “After seeing him at Casa, I think you might’ve dodged a bullet.” He pauses, shifts on the mattress like he can’t physically sit with the information he’s holding back. “He kept talking like he could explore and didn’t have to worry, because he knew you’d be waiting. Got in a bit of a row with him about it, actually.”

You picture them on the lawn, the coldness in Carlos’ eyes, the barely concealed disdain on Lando’s face, and the puzzle pieces click into place. He’d stood up for you. Even when he didn’t have to, even when you weren’t there to hear it, even if it meant he’d lose Carlos.

“Thank you,” you whisper, voice choked with emotion. “For everything. Seriously.”

His gaze softens, and he pulls you into his chest, arms wrapping around you. Maybe it’s the emotional exhaustion, or the strange intimacy of being the only two people in the world who understand each other’s situation right now, but you can feel yourself relax for the first time in days. “Always,” he says, words muffled against your hair. “What are friends for?”

“I’m glad it’s you,” you mumble. He’s warm and solid and steady beneath you, and despite the heartbreak and the humiliation and the hundreds of cameras probably pointed at you right now, you know you’re safe. “Really. Think I’d be losing it if it were anyone else here right now.”

His arms tighten around you just slightly as your eyes drift shut. “Me too,” he says, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. The last thing you think as you sink into sleep is that neither of you are okay yet, not by a long shot. 

But you’re also not alone.

[p1astritruther]

thank you SO SO MUCH for all the love on Nice To Each Other!!!!!! this is my first time posting on here so i’m feeling very very very blessed 🥹🫶 i’m currently working on a part two that will come out as soon as possible (we’re 2k words in #lockedin), so please stay tuned!!!!!!

i’d also like to start writing more one shots (i think?) so my requests are open if there’s anything you’d like to read from me!!!!! i’ve got a bit of an obsession on smau’s rn so that might come out soon as well + i’m currently working on a loooooooong oscar piastri x ofc fanfic (the synopsis has been posted on my wattpad #vintage if you’re interested)!!! anyways, prepare to be SICK of me 💗

[p1astritruther]

Nice To Each Other

lando norris x reader °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

RARE AESTHETIC : The year is about to be 2023, you’re thriving at your big girl corporate job and all your best friends became influencers, which inadvertently turned you into their sugar baby. In Ibiza, during a girls’ trip to ring in the New Year, you meet a younger guy with a bright smile and a dirty mouth – and everything goes downhill from there.

AUTHOR’S NOTE : heya!!!! reposting this with a very nice little smutty surprise at the end after taking it down a couple of months ago because i thought i could maybe write a second part… which hasn’t happened yet, but will happen soon #trust. anyways, english is not my first language so please have mercy on me hehe and i hope you enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writing it! also please comment what you thought of it i’m #dying to know + let me know if you’d like to be added to an eventual tag list for a just as eventual part 2 (and 3 and 4 and 5? i see their lore clearly in my head i just need to actually write it down grrrr)!!! anyways, welcome to “Nice To Each Other”!!!! <3

WORD COUNT : 13k :p

WARNINGS : smut… *monkey covering eyes emoji*

Your skin is warm from the sun and your cheeks are rosy from the accidental nap you just woke up from. A couple of feet away, in the infinity pool of the nice little villa you rented for the week, the girls are giggling about something silly, with Pinterest-worthy fruity drinks in their hands and cute sunglasses on the tip of their noses. You can kind of hear the waves hitting the shore and your playlist, the one you've curated perfectly exclusively for this trip, is playing faintly from the JBL you dropped on the sun lounger next to yours. The thought of fuck, this is definitely what life is actually all about comes to you abruptly, and it makes you smile, because yeah, you don't really see how it can get any better than this.

Your best mates, your sexiest bikini and an absolutely divine tan – you've officially peaked at 26 years old.

As soon as you sit up to undo the sloppy braids you went to sleep with, the girls notice, and before you even know it, you've got a glass of lychee sangria and a plate of prosciutto e melone on your lap.

"Well, hello there, Sleeping Beauty," Isla gushes, her slowly drying body sliding right next to yours on the lounge chair, a pretty grin on her cherry-tinted lips. "Welcome back to the land of the living. You laid down for two seconds and we lost you for the next four hours. Pretty impressive, if you ask me."

You roll your eyes at that. "Sorry, baby, not all of us can live life on easy mode. My very hardworking body cannot make the difference between a power nap and a 10-hours night of sleep anymore."

You can barely hold back your laughter as you say it, and it's now her turn to roll her eyes at you. She huffs and pushes you back to lay on the lounge chair, and when the mocking laugh finally erupts out of you, the slap she jokingly gives your chest just makes you crack up harder. "Shut up, muppet, you work in PR. Also, you're the sexiest bitch I know, so you wake up everyday and willingly make the choice to suffer. Not my problem you refuse to use your tits instead of your brain for once."

This just makes you laugh harder, and her poker face breaks quickly. Her hands come up to unbraid your hair, and you lean into it. The silence that follows isn't awkward. It's the peaceful type of quiet that can only be found when you're around the people that you love the most, and Isla, as it stands, is one of the founding members of this category.

You met at 5 years old, as lifelong best friends tend to do. She was the goalie in the little kids' football team your parents put you in before they realized that you were definitely more of an arts and crafts' girlie than a "run after a ball for two hours and kick it once in a while" kid. Isla, as it turns out, shared your philosophy, and you would most often than not end up sitting down by the goal braiding flowers into each other's hair for the majority of the game. You quickly became inseparable, and that didn't change as you grew up. At 18, as you moved to London for uni, she, who had quickly realized school was not and would never be her forte, came with you in the hopes of finding a purpose. Your first shared flat was a tiny mess with a lot of personality (mold in the bathroom), but you made do, and you made do so well that while you graduated with honors, Isla, who had always been the epitome of the cool English girl, grew an online community so vast it sometimes felt a little bit suffocating. She had started YouTube as soon as you arrived in London, and in three years, she had become a household name in both the city and the Web in general. Her content was that of a relatable twenty-something who was at the same time a chaotic mess and a bright-eyed it girl, so of course people were eating it up. The longevity of it, however, was actually what was the most surprising, because ten years later, here she still was – the brightest star in the sky, with the world at the tip of her fingers and so many brands competing for her attention in her DMs that it made you both a bit dizzy when you tried to deal with it all.

However, Isla has made it clear that wherever she goes, you, her 9-to-5 best friend with a private Instagram account and a permanent resting bitch face would also be. You were, in this big scary world of public perception and Reddit threads, her trusty sidekick, and while some people may take offence to that, you were exactly where you wanted to be. You got to enjoy all of the perks of being an influencer without having to personally deal with any of the inconveniences – who would ever say no to being their best friend's plus one to every single brand trip she's invited to? Not you, definitely, because while you do love your job, it sure as hell is not sending you to the Maldives for free, even though you did get a nice little New York City week last November, all expenses paid, to attend a one-day conference... So you guess it's not all that bad in the big old corporate world.

You're both still sitting in silence, deep in thought, her hands running in your hair, your face nearly in her rack, when Florence, still in the pool, whistles like a perv, getting both of you's attention and bringing you back to the present.

"While I'm aware you guys aren't fucking, I still hope you know that I would pay some seriously good money for that sextape if it ever comes out," she snickers, and you can't help but join in as you jokingly wrap your arms around Isla's waist, pulling her in in a lover's embrace that would definitely make both of your mums blush.

"What, jealous? You can join, babes, we don't mind a good threesome once in a while."

Flo doesn't hesitate, a wide toothy smirk taking over her face, and she nearly runs out of the pool to join you on the lounge chair, which creaks a little bit as it's definitely not made to handle the weight of three women who do pilates thrice a week for the sole objective of having bigger bums. She leaves behind Tilly and Zara, who are laughing, quite used to this underlying homoerotic tension in your friend group, as this gimmick has been going on since you first came together, in what you've come to collectively call "The Genesis", as it definitely sounds better than "we all met in a club at 18 and became inseparable because somebody drugged all of our drinks, which turned out to be a very strong bonding experience and the foundation of girlhood at its purest form".

You, Isla, Florence, Tilly and Zara. The Core 5, or as they like to call it, Y/N's Angels, because out of the five of you, you are the only one whose job is not to simply vibe, and that automatically makes you both their mother and their sugar baby. What a time to be alive.

As you settle in, with two bad bitches on your lap and a minty cigarette between your lips, the girls start to establish the plan for the night, as it's your first one in Ibiza so of course it needs to be iconic. You're happy to just sit there and enjoy the ride, because they're the ones that get invited to clubs and that need to decide which ones to prioritize over the others. Maybe you're the one living life on easy mode, after all.

"All of the reservations for dinner this week have been made when we first booked the trip, so we can't really move that unless David Guetta himself invites us anywhere... which unfortunately probably won't happen knowing the one-sided beef he seems to have with one of us since last time," starts Tilly, pointedly eyeing Florence, who just smiles and blinks innocently as if she doesn't remember that last year she very much ghosted the DJ after he apparently gave her the worst head in the history of man. "This means that we just need a club itinerary for the week. So? Thoughts?"

"I think we should hit Pacha first of all. It's always a good time. Remember the Australian guy you met there the first time we went, Y/N? Is he still trying to contact you on LinkedIn? You little minx," Zara teases you as she fills up everybody's glass to the brim with a fresh new batch of that to-die-for sangria.

You nod as your cheeks heat up a little bit, remembering the man in question. "Well, I never accepted his follow request on IG, so beggars can't be choosers, I guess."

You're not a player, but you do enjoy the game once in a while, and when a guy has an accent, some nice eyes and a head of very pretty curls that look even prettier after being grabbed a little too hard, what's a mere girl to do but take him back home with her? That's just the polite thing to do, after all, and you were raised well.

Thinking about tall, tan and big everywhere made you kind of clock out from the ongoing conversation, and when you come back to it, a gameplan has been made.

"OK, so, it's five PM right now. Let's say we leave for dinner at eight, that gives us three hours to get ready, or two hours of prepping and one hour to look at her emails for Y/N..."

You cut Tilly off, shaking your head. "So considerate. Thank you for your generosity."

They all ignore you, and Isla brings up her strawberry vape to your mouth to shut you up.

Tilly continues, a focused look on her face that can only mean she's already planning the composition of a killer Instagram carousel. "Dress code for tonight? Let's start basic with the all white fits, and we can come back to change after dinner. So, let's say we do flowy, ethereal, linen and lace, gold accents and natural makeup for dinner. Sounds good?"

Everybody agrees. We cheer to it. The JBL is playing "Tití Me Preguntó", and the sun is just hot enough to make everything a little bit more intense, a little bit more perfect.

You smile.

Ibiza, baby.

Three days later, on the very first day of 2023, the girls are out and about while you are stuck back at the villa, as you're never really on vacation when you're the youngest Marketing and Communications Manager Burberry has ever had. Saying you work in PR is a bit of an understatement, sure, but you never really have the time to go into the details, so that's what you usually stick to.

Where there is a brand, there is a crisis, and your job is to make sure that the crisis of today never becomes the crisis of tomorrow. Efficient, brutal and just cutthroat enough to be a little bit scary : there's a reason you got the job of your dreams at 25, and there's a reason you're still here, thriving, a year later. Some say you were made for it. You like to say that it was made for you.

It's been midnight for just about 5 minutes when you finally close your two laptops, take off your blue light glasses and try to loosen the knot in your lower back. Your normal phone (not to be confused with your work phone, whose ringtone has given you PTSD) vibrates twice from where you left it on the dresser so as to not get distracted, and two messages from Isla greet you when you pick it up.

ISLA

heyyyyyyyy boss babe idk when you think you're gonna be done, but fyi we actually ended up at cova santa!!!

and we met some blokes we know there, so just text me when you get here so i can come get you!!! vip baby!!

You're about to text her that you just need to get ready and you'll be there in 45 minutes tops when she sends another text that makes a smile grow on your lips.

ISLA

also i know you're trying to be responsible (lol) but this guy here is 110% your type it's kinda scary so i told him his dream girl is coming soon and i showed him a sexy pic of you and now he's trying hard to act all nonchalant but he asked for your number anyways and he keeps looking at the entrance so pls hurry up xoxo i really want to watch you guys kiss!!!!

Yeah, okay. You're definitely gonna need a couple of tequila shots before you get to her level, but you're also definitely up for the challenge – and if the night does end up with you under Mr. "110% your type"... Well, you can't really be held responsible for it.

What would be Ibiza without at least one little adventure, after all?

An hour later, you make it to Cova Santa, and the quarter of a bottle of tequila you downed as you were curling your hair is starting to hit, if the slight fuzzy feeling that’s taken over your head is any indication. You’re glad you put on one of your cosier, more broken in pairs of Miu Miu heels because you can already tell this is gonna be a long night.

The bass is heavy, the crowd is packed, the lights are bright and Isla quickly grabs your hand to drag you towards the VIP section, still hot as hell and nearly flawless even though she’s been drinking for the past 4 hours, and, realistically, for the past 3 days.

She’s trying to debrief you about something as you walk through the sea of people, and while you don’t hear all of it, you catch her drift pretty quickly.

“OK, so he’s a bit shorter than your usual boytoy, but I think what he lacks in height he compensates in banter! And we both know how much you love some good banter!”

Her scream reaches you through the general noise of the club, and you can’t help but laugh and nod, because yeah, it’s not a secret that you’re a sucker for a 6 with a smart mouth.

“And what does he do? Anything but a DJ, please!”

She pauses in the crowd, a wide smile on her burgundy red lips and an evil glint in her eyes that makes you brace yourself for the bullshit that’s definitely about to come out of her mouth.

“Worse! I think he’s a Twitch streamer!”

You roll your eyes, but once again, the alcohol in your veins makes you unable to feel anything but whimsy, so you start giggling. Ah yes, 110% your type, which of course includes men who play video games for a living. “Fuck you, Isla!!! A Twitch streamer, really? If he’s not cute, I’m being mean to him and that’s gonna be your fault, so I hope you feel guilty when I destroy his little ego and leave him for dead in Cova Santa!”

You ignore all of her jabs of “I swear you’re gonna really like him” and “I’m betting 100 American dollars that you end up in his bed tonight anyways you whore” as you finally reach the VIP section, where Tilly hands you a vodka soda as soon as you step one foot past the bouncer.

“Y/N, baby, you look stunning! What the fuck is this wet dream of a dress?” she gushes as her hands firmly grab your shoulders to both keep you at a viewing distance and to balance herself a bit, because you can clearly see that she’s wobbling a little in those 6 inches high heels. Her brows furrow, and you can see, with the sudden widening of her eyes, that she quickly realizes you’re wearing…

“Is this Versace Spring Summer 2004? Shut up!”

Both your eyes turn towards the younger blonde girl who just appeared next to you, her eyes glued to the fabric of your baby pink dress that is, in fact, straight out of the Versace Spring Summer 2004 collection.

You nod your head enthusiastically, because while this is a stranger, this is a stranger who knows her vintage couture, which automatically makes her a friend. “Yes! I love you!”

She laughs, and all three of you cheer to it. You down your glass, and as soon as you put it down, a new one appears in your hand – one of the many perks of looking like a rich pretentious bitch in those foolish VIP sections. You spend money to get more drinks, so of course they get you more drunk so you want to spend more money to get more drinks. It’s an universal trick, and one you, grand master of marketing, is still not immune to.

The blonde girl introduces herself to you as your friends all come to greet you, and you understand quickly that she’s not that much of a stranger to your friend group as a whole. Her name is Pietra, originally from Brazil, and while in your eyes she’s way too young to be hanging out around a bunch of random men in Ibiza, she’s apparently been dating one of them for a couple of months now, so that supposedly makes it all better. Also, she’s got that spark in her eyes that tells you she’s exactly where she wants to be, so while your maternal instincts urge you to feel some sympathy, the more rational part of your brain urges you to just smile and nod, because that’s just a random Tuesday in the world of people with one too many Instagram followers.

You then meet her boyfriend, Max, and everything suddenly makes sense. That is a D-list celebrity if you’ve ever seen one. He’s got a nice smile (he’s too aware of it, it’s a bit freaky) and he insists on shaking your hand like this is a business meeting, because in his world, every person he ever meets is a business opportunity. Anyways, he’s nice enough, but you once again just smile and nod, as this is a girls’ trip, after all, and you personally don’t really see any business opportunity between a Twitch streamer and Burberry. He’s also pretty quick to write you off as “poor pretty dumb girl with an office job”, which you can tell from his slightly patronizing tone when he explains what he and his entourage do for a living (they have their own brand! cool!). You don’t really mind. You’re not there to make LinkedIn connections, you’re here to get drunk with your friends and shake some ass in your favorite Ibiza club.

Quickly, Zara, Flo, Tilly, Isla and you leave them all behind in the VIP section and jump eagerly into the crowd, your little circle of girls being quickly overpowered by the hundreds of people on the dancefloor. You forget all about the mysterious guy that all of your friends promised you was hot as fuck, as he wasn’t even in the VIP section when you arrived, so he’s not really your problem after all.

A house song you’ve heard once or twice in the London clubs is playing and Zara has her arms over your hips, yours finding her neck as you both sway to the music. You can see Flo recording, and while you already know this is going to end up in her “ibiza w/ my girlfriendzzz” vlog (and unfortunately probably in the intro), you don’t really have it in yourself to care. All of your friends’ fans know who you are, but they don’t really know who you are, if that makes sense. The girls have built a narrative in which you’re their smart, busy, work-driven best friend who just gets in the car on the way to the airport and enjoys the ride… which is not really that far from reality, after all. You’ve planned one trip in the past ten years… and it’s when you got Isla’s parents to drive you both to Wembley Stadium for a One Direction concert… in 2013. So, yeah, you exist, you’re an important part of the Core 5, but you’re mysterious and elusive and the most skilled with a curling iron. You still get thousands of follow requests on Instagram every week, and your name appears on a couple of Reddit threads once in a while, but that’s pretty much it. You’ve stumbled once on a TikTok thirst trap edit of yourself, and while you did save it (you looked very sexy in it, sue you), that was enough doomscrolling for the evening.

The night goes on this way, you and your girls and a beat that is surprisingly in sync with your heart, and an hour or two later, your group has spread, as of course five very fine women on a dancefloor don’t go unnoticed for too long. Personally, you’ve talked to a couple of people, but none of them have really grabbed your attention, so as your phone indicates you that’s it’s just past 3 in the morning, you’ve made your way back towards the VIP section to get some fresh air and to light up an even fresher menthol cigarette.

You find a nearly empty spot with some sofas deeper into the forest, and with a cigarette in your mouth and a half-empty glass in your hand, you nearly throw yourself on one of them, excited for some relief after one too many hours on heels one too many inches too high. You take them off sloppily before taking the opportunity to relax a little bit, laying down on your belly and holding yourself up on your elbows with your feet lazily kicking in the air. On your phone, you scroll halfheartedly through the stupidest Instagram Reels ever, so you alternate between taking a hit and giggling to cat videos, with the surrounding fairylights illuminating your face and the house music just loud enough to get your head to bop a little.

That’s how he finds you.

“I’ve never seen anybody having this much of a good time in a club. What are we watching?”

The voice takes you by surprise, but the vodka in your stomach makes your instincts a bit less instinctual, so you don’t jump. You just slowly turn both your head and your screen towards the newcomer, the naive little smile on your face making the whole situation way sillier than it should be. “Baby cat.”

A very nice smile blossoms on his own lips as his eyes focus on the dumb video, and your heart misses a beat. Oh. You make sure that he’s still staring at your phone before letting your own eyes finally take a full look at the stranger, scanning him from head to toe, and as you do, your spine gets a bit more rigid, your grin a bit more solid, your gaze a bit more focused. Oh.

He’s pretty. Not particularly crazily handsome, but pretty enough that you resist the urge to look too hard at his baby face to make sure that it is fully imprinted in your memory. Nice nose, nice lips, nice jawline – and those eyes. It’s pretty dark out here but you can still see them, and you like what you see. They’re gentle, kind eyes, like those of a little lamb (very weird comparison that your just as really drunk brain is extremely proud of coming up with, thank you very much)... until they focus back on your face, and then the gleam that appears in his gaze would never in a million years be found anywhere near one of those sweet little babies. Except maybe if there was a wolf close. Yeah. This boy is the wolf. He smiles with all his teeth and that just confirms your theory… but if he’s a wolf, and you’re a wolf, then who the fuck is driving the bus?

You got so stuck in your head that you lowkey forgot you’ve got an audience, so when you can’t stop a little laugh from escaping your mouth at the thought that just hit you, he just tilts his head, still smiling, as he manspreads on the sofa in front of yours. Fuck, he’s hot.

“You’re way too fit to be a psycho so I’m just gonna ignore that.”

You finish your cigarette, giggling again, before dumping it in the conveniently neighboring ashtray and turning on your side to face the guy, trying very hard to keep your eyes very far from the strip of tan skin that his unbuttoned linen shirt shows off in a way that is much too sexy to be an accident. Fuck, with this and the messy curls and the very nice outfit, he looks like too much of a good time. You need to chill.

As you go to take a sip out of your glass to concentrate on something that isn’t the way he looks at you, you realize that it’s empty, which means only one thing : you’re screwed.

“Famous last words,” you tease him, and your voice, fully against your will, takes that tone that it only ever takes when you want something real bad. Too late, then. “You never know, I might bite.”

This is the same girl who came to Ibiza with the intention of being responsible. Come on, man.

His smile, which was already sharp, just widens, and he leans forward on his elbows. Yeah, you’re in trouble. “Well, who says I wouldn’t be a willing victim, love?”

He’s so close. Too close. Who the fuck puts two sofas this close?

“Cute,” you softly roll your eyes, but you can’t hide the grin that takes over your face, and it just adds some fuel to his fire.

“I already thought you were pretty in the photos your friends showed me earlier, but those actually really didn’t do you any justice.”

Of course, the guy with the cocky smile is Mr. “110% your type”. Of course.

You shake your head at his words, getting into a position that just accidentally makes your boobs look even better than before. You catch his eyes going downwards quickly before focusing back on yours, and while he knows that you just saw that, he definitely doesn’t care. You’re playing a game together, and for once, it seems like you’ve potentially met your match.

“Funny because my friends told me the bloke they spoke with was taller, though, so I think you might have the wrong person…”

He laughs, and the fact that it’s not a fake laugh has you resisting the urge to sneakily rub your thighs together. What do you mean you’re standing in front of a man that’s both proper fit and self assured? This is a trap. It has to be. Where are the hidden cameras?

“Oh, Y/N, right? You and I are gonna have so much fun.”

It’s just you two in what has to be the most quiet spot in all of Ibiza. No interruption, no buffer of any kind. Just you, him and the visceral urge to sit in his lap.

Fuck me, I need a drink.

It’s after a good minute of way too intense eye contact that you realize you don’t even know his name yet. He’s still leaning towards you like your grin is a magnetic force, so it’s not a surprise when he comes even closer as soon as you open your mouth to ask the question. It’s as if he can’t control himself, as if this crazy tension between you overpowers his senses. The feeling of it all is heady, and you shiver lightly at the realization that this is probably the most insane case of lust at first sight in the history of man. That, or you’re so down bad that any guy with some nice blue eyes gets you going like a blushing virgin.

You need to keep your cool. You really, really need a fucking drink.

As soon as the thought hits you, it’s as if the connection between you both goes deeper than just two strangers who want to shag the other, because he raises his own glass to his lips, and the sight of his Adam apple moving as he swallows has you gulping softly. He’s still looking at you with those killer bedroom eyes when you reach your hand out in the universal “give me” motion, and he, without any question, gives you what you want instantly. Be chill. Be chill. This is a man. Just a man.

His fingers flutter against yours for a second or two, and just to add insult to injury, he obviously very voluntarily strokes the back of your thumb with his own calloused one before letting go.

You resist the urge to chug it all in one go, because you’ve still got a little bit of dignity to maintain. Instead, in an attempt to even back the scales, you deliberately put your lips exactly where his were a couple of moments ago. He notices. Once again, his gaze sharpens, and you catch his pupils dilating. There you go. Just a man.

You take a dignified little sip of his gin and tonic, letting out a satisfied little “ah!” when you’re done. You’re not the biggest fan of gin, so this is definitely just a part of this little performance you’ve got going on. He still hasn’t looked at anything else but you, so you guess that it’s working… just as you expected.

“What’s your name?” you finally ask him, before slowly licking your upper lip to swallow the residue of alcohol that stuck to your clear lipgloss.

He sounds a bit winded when he answers. “Lando.”

You tilt your head, still laying on your side on the sofa and holding yourself upright on your elbow. Your maneater smile (as the girls like to call it) softens a bit. “Lando. Cute. Where’s it from?”

“My mum,” he offers, and his eyes crinkle, his gaze turns fond.

In turn, it warms your heart, because while this is definitely a playboy, it is also first and foremost a mumma’s boy. “Even cuter. It’s surprisingly very fitting, so good job to her.”

You’re not lying. He does look like a Lando, as crazy as it sounds. It’s a bit whimsical, and he has what you can only describe as elfish features, in a way. You don’t really know why, but it’s getting to you. Must be that 12 year old you who was obsessed with Legolas is finally waking up from wherever she’s hiding in the depths of your boy-obsessed brain.

“No Star Wars joke? I’m in love,” Lando jokes, and when you laugh, in an attempt to ignore the warmth his voice ignites in your chest, he chuckles too.

He’s so close that you can feel his breath on your skin when he does, and the warmth of it has you losing focus a little bit. You’d just need to lean forward a little bit, to maybe sneakily reach out a hand, to feel his skin against yours again. You feel dizzy with want. This is, you think, the most down bad you’ve ever been, which is fucking preposterous in itself, because as far as you know this man could be – “Are you a Twitch streamer for real or did my friend just say that to freak me out? Because, just so you know, I refuse to fuck a Twitch streamer. So, yeah. Answer wisely.”

It slips out of you too quickly, too honestly, and suddenly all your cards are on the table, and the ball is in his court. Oops. Oh well. So much for mystery and nonchalance and will they, won’t they. You want him, he wants you (if the grin that just blossomed on his lips is any indication) and now you’re both officially aware of each other’s intentions.

He runs his hand through his hair, and while you let yourself be distracted by the veins in his forearm for a second too long, you focus back on his face when he starts talking. “What’s wrong with being a Twitch streamer, anyways?” he asks you, with his eyebrows up and his smile mocking. “And no, I’m not. Well, it’s not my full time job, anyways. So I think fucking me won’t go against your moral standards, baby.”

You ignore the pet name, because it’s now your turn to raise your brows at him. “Lots of words for a guy who definitely is a Twitch streamer.”

Lando rolls his eyes in fake exasperation and quickly steals his glass back from you, making you gasp in exaggerated consternation at his action. This little game you’re playing is the most fun you’ve had in weeks.

“It doesn’t count, you little brat. I do it for like, an hour a month or something. It’s job number five out of five, so that tells you how much of a Twitch streamer I am.”

That grabs your attention. “And what’s job number one? Professional Fortnite player who, oh, actually does it in front of a camera?”

Lando’s smile widens. You’re so fucking hot, so fucking wrong, and mostly so fucking loud about it it’s adorable. “I’m a driver, actually.”

Your smile drops, and you unconsciously pout a little in confusion, because, yeah, that’s both unexpected and a first. “Like, a taxi driver?”

As soon as you say it, you know there’s simply no way that Lando, with his self-assured smirk and his confident manspread that is surprisingly more sexy than annoying, is a taxi driver.

It’s as if he can read your thoughts. “Yeah, no, no taxis. The cars I drive are a bit faster than that.”

On a normal day, if you were sober, you would probably be able to answer him in a rational way, with a full sentence, a verb and a period at the end. However, it’s nearly sunrise, you’ve been drinking for a couple of hours and his stare makes your already fogged up brain even more of a jumbled mess, so the thing that comes out is a very strong new entry in your Top 10 of Most Stupid Things You’ve Ever Said Ever.

“Lewis Hamilton?”

Your mouth closes straight after, the realization of what you just said hitting you at full speed as soon as it’s out, while his opens, and stays open for a couple of seconds as he considers how to reply to such a wonderful and intelligent claim. When it comes out, it sounds more like a question than an answer. “Well. Yes. But like, Lando Norris?”

“Oh. Cool. That’s… cool,” you declare very smartly, before oversharing as you tend to do when you’re plastered and a bit embarrassed. “I only know Lewis because I work with him, so I don’t really know anything about your cars, other than they're, like, fast. Sorry for not knowing you, anyways. I’m sure you’re just as fast as Lewis. Well, maybe not, because everybody says he’s the best, and I’ve never seen him drive myself, but you know, if everybody says it.. even though everybody said the world was going to end in 2012 and-”

“Wait, you work with Lewis? How? As an influencer? What?”

His voice cuts you off as he shortcircuits, and you’re glad for it because that was a monumental Y/N rant that would have probably ended up with you most probably talking about how you lost your virginity (2012 was a dark time for everyone, okay). His gaze, which is suddenly a bit less sultry and a bit more tense, is intently scrutinizing your face. He’s slowly leaning away from you as in his head, he’s talking about all of the things you could actually be : an obsessed groupie, a journalist, or even a random woman hired by another team to fuck up his already shaky reputation even more.

In his mind, you stop being just a pretty, easy girl with a sharp tongue and doe eyes. You become a threat : an extremely fit threat, sure, but a threat anyways.

You don’t notice his inner dilemma because your eyes close in an unladylike chortle as soon as he says it, as you’re actually both not really surprised and not offended by it all. It’s a common mistake, but it’s still pretty funny to your tired brain at the moment. “I’m not an influencer, you muppet. Just because I’m a pretty girl with a fancy dress doesn’t mean I got it in a brand deal.”

That seems to settle Lando a bit, and while he’s still not fully back at ease, he relaxes a little, taking another sip before handing you the glass so you can finish it off. “So what are you? Because right now, with all the clues you’ve given me, I’ve got one option, and I’m not sure you’re gonna like it.”

You understand what he means as soon as he says it, and you cackle freely, finally sitting up, resisting the urge to let your legs land on his lap. “Lando! Are you implying I’m a whore?”

It seems your laugh is contagious, before his cocky smirk cracks to let a snigger through, and he finally leans back on one of his elbows as his other hand coincidentally lands on your knee, which rubs against his when he moves closer. “Not a whore,” he protests halfheartedly, but the glint in his eyes has you shaking your head as you scoff at his very obvious dishonesty. He still keeps the act up, letting his lips part then purse as he fakes some very intense pondering. “More like… whore-adjacent.”

“Ah! Shut the fuck up, you Twitch streamer!”

You’re still laughing, and he is too, and his left hand tries to sneakily move up your thigh. You jokingly slap it away before it gets too close, and he gasps in mock protest. His nose scrunches as he keeps up the smug eye contact you’ve got going, and suddenly his other hand, just as large, just as warm, is back on your thigh. Cocky motherfucker.

You let him win this round, though, because you can’t deny the fact that his grasp on you has your stomach in knots and your throat drying up.

“So, not a whore, then. Just a very pretty girl with a very mysterious job,” he drawls in an attempt to smooth things over, and you hum.

“Yeah, if you consider working in PR as mysterious, then sure.”

His gaze lights up, and he happily huffs. You act as if you can’t feel his grip tightening steadily on the skin of your thigh. It’s a win-win situation, anyways. No need for drama.

“Well, look at that. You work in PR, I’m a PR nightmare. Match made in heaven,” he playfully exclaims, before quickly understanding, from your raised eyebrow, that this might not be the smartest thing to say to a PR girl who you want to get into your bed at the end of the night. “Which is what I would say if I was a PR nightmare, but as I am of course definitely not any of that, then I guess that’s too bad for the actual PR nightmares out there.”

He shrugs innocently, and that whole little shtick makes you nearly laugh too hard again until you catch yourself right before it happens. Come on, Y/N, you need to grow a spine, like, yesterday.

In his mind, there’s still a question that you haven’t answered. “Are you, like, a PR assistant? Definitely fashion, right? You’ve got that whole thing about you. How did you even end up working with Lewis? I can’t remember him working with any brand recently, except maybe…”

You cut him off, because for once, you’re talking to a guy who seems actually interested in your job, and even though you know that this is not a pissing contest, you can’t resist the animal instinct in your DNA that makes you want to impress the beautiful man in front of you. “Burberry? Yeah, we’ve got a little bit of a partnership going in with Lewis right now, which is pretty cool, to be frank. I’m kind of like the link between his team and ours, actually, as the Head of the Marketing and Communications Department,” you offer in a very humble way, your shoulders rising in your best impression of a nonchalant shrug.

He’s stopped moving, and his thumb, which had been tracing slow circles on the skin of your thigh for the past minute, freezes completely. “Head?! Like Chief? Like Big Boss?”

You nod proudly, manipulating his state of shock to your advantage as you let your hand finally wander up his forearm, because you’ve been a very good girl for the past hour or so and you can’t resist the temptation anymore. It’s like a little treat, a little reward, when you let your fingers trace the solid lines of his arm until they hit the rolled sleeve right under his elbow just to stop right under it. You scratch lightly the sensitive skin there with the tip of your nails, and his breathing speedens a bit, but he hides it quickly, way too curious to let himself be distracted.

His voice is disbelieving, but not in a mean, condescending way. He sounds boyish, a bit concerned, a bit awed, and his following exclamation surprises the shit out of you. “But you’re like 23! And you’re the boss? You must be the most fucking terrifying PR rep ever. I knew you were definitely a bit mean, but this is crazy. And so sexy. Fuck, you’re so sexy.”

It’s your turn to freeze a little, because you’ve only heard one thing out of everything he’s just said, and that’s... “You think I’m 23?”

It comes out strangled, and he nods enthusiastically. His eyes are so expressive that you can see the sincerity in them, and you wince sharply, because you finally see through the lust-tinted glasses you’ve been wearing since you’ve met him, and it’s not looking good. You’ve been staring at him for an hour straight, but it’s the first time you actually see him, all of him. The very noticeable puppy eyes he’s making at you right now, showcasing his confusion at your reaction, just confirm everything, and you sober up nearly immediately.

You quickly take your hand off his arm before sighing deeply, closing your eyes as you do.

“Lando, how old are you?”

He frowns, not really understanding why this is all of a sudden pertinent or important. “I’m 23,” he states, before he flinches back in panic. “Wait, what the fuck, you’re not a minor, right?”

While this situation is nothing to laugh at, his question is so absurd you can’t fight the giggle that wants to escape your throat. Oh, come on.

“A minor? Lando!”

He’s grimacing a bit at himself, realizing how stupid this sounded, and both his hands lift in the air in a “not guilty” gesture, his eyes going from scared to amused in a second or so.

“What? What’s the problem, then? Your name’s not Y/N? You’re not British? Your tits are fake? What is it?”

You just sigh again, both in plain astonishment and in utter disarray, because this is the dumbest situation you’ve ever been in, and you can’t believe it’s happening for real to you on a random Monday morning in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea.

“Lando, I’m not 23. I’m 26, about to be 27 in three months. I could, like, be your mother!”

Lando physically recoils, until his brain catches up to the quick math of it all and he tsks at you. “Yeah, okay. Now, I’ve never been very good with numbers, but even I can tell you that this is not true. For a big boss, I would have expected you to know that, but I guess they just promote anyone these days.”

He’s too sassy for his own good, but you can’t even respond before his two hands find themselves back on your thighs, his grip solid, grounding.They don’t move even when you try to push them off, because clearly this boy does not understand the gravity of the situation.

His following statement just confirms that. “So, you still haven’t explained what’s the problem here.”

You gasp at him, your whole mask of nonchalance forgotten ever since you found out his age. “The problem? I don’t fuck kids, that’s the problem. I don’t want to be a cougar, thank you very much.”

This whole speech contradicts wildly with the fact that your hands, even though they’ve stopped trying to push him away, haven’t moved, and are now laying flatly on the top of his, your fingers curling slightly against the curve of his thick wrists. Fuck, I’m turning into my mother.

Your panic just makes him laugh, and it’s such a pretty laugh that you can only pretend to get mad at it. “Y/N, first of all, I’m repeating myself here, but I would definitely be a willing victim if that were to be the case. Second of all, it’s not, so calm the fuck down. Would it help if I told you I turn 24 tomorrow?”

You contemplate that as his calloused thumbs go back to tracing smooth circles on the skin of your thighs, luring you into him, your upper body leaning towards his unconsciously. “Well, yeah, it would.”

He nods, as if to say “well there you go”.

“Great, then. It’s not true, though, but if it makes you feel better, we can go along with it.”

“Lando!”

“What?! I’m trying to help, here!”

You stand up sharply, and he stays seated, which makes him look up at you with these laughing eyes and this sinful, cheeky mouth, and while you do have the higher ground now, you think it makes you even more down bad.

His fucking hands are still on your body. At this angle, they feel enormous, like they could cover the whole length of your thighs, and oh so warm, so inviting… but you are an adult, and your willpower will not be defeated by a nice pair of hands.

“Lando, your brain is not yet fully developed, so I’m making an executive decision for us both here,” you start, right before he cuts you off.

“This is like… reverse ageism!”

His facial expression is insulted, but his tone is mocking, and his grasp on you moves from the front of your thighs to the back of them, which brings you infinitely closer to him and his long eyelashes. When he exhales longly, voluntarily, it nearly hits straight against the junction of your legs, and your eyes narrow in an attempt to scold him and his whorish behavior. It has the opposite effect, however, as the corners of his lips turn up and you feel his fingers inching up, up, up… until they disappear under the hem of your dress.

Lando lets you talk. He knows women like you : if you don’t get it all out, it’s gonna haunt you for the rest of your time with him, and he’d rather you be fully, mentally and physically there with him when he finally gets you where he wants to.

“Stop joking! I don’t want to be like… a predator. You’re probably famous, right? At least a little bit, anyways. Imagine the headlines : Grandma’s Still Got It!”

He guffaws. He can’t help it. This is the most fun he’s had in months, he thinks.

You’re still freaking out, but it’s more of a downward spiral than anything, so he finally cuts you off before you make yourself insane with what-ifs and conspiracy theories.

“And, and I’m going to walk around London, and people are going to point and laugh and go old hag! Old ha-ah!”

Your knees fail you when he jerks you towards him, and you literally fall into his lap, the quick move shutting you up instantly. You’re stretched over his strong thighs, and you feel him right under you. No more mental breakdown : the only thing you can think about is him, and his scent, and his arms, which have now moved right under your bum to hold you against him.

You can’t meet his eyes, and the pout that takes over your face is just a very poor attempt at seeming annoyed and not turned the fuck on. If you’ve lost all control over the situation, at least you still have yourself… right? Right?

“Deep breath, baby. That was a lot of words. Silly words at that,” he chides, and while normally you wouldn’t tolerate the slightly patronizing tone, you’re a bit tired and he’s pretty and his body against yours feels very nice.

You however don’t take that much needed deep breath, because even though he’s a fine man with a deep voice, he’s still a man, and you think listening to him like that would be your final straw. To be fair, you’d rather die, so when you start holding your breath instead, it’s quite funny to watch Lando shake his head dejectedly as soon as he notices.

“Okay, you muppet, be a brat, see if I care.”

You resist the urge to stick your tongue out at him, because, well, your own thing was about being too old for him, so that wouldn’t look too good – but God do you want to.

Instead, you let your own hands wander, playing idly with the open collar of his shirt to ground yourself, but mostly to mess with him. In return, his fingers tighten and you feel them getting closer to where you actually want them.

Oh well, may the best tease win here.

Even though you’re distracted, you still haven’t forgotten the problem at hand here, and he knows it, so he adjusts his stance.

“To go back to what I was saying,” he cheekily starts, because you both know that he wasn’t saying anything, “26 and 23 is nothing. You’re not a cougar. You’re a beautiful woman and I’m a man with eyes and, no surprise there, I want you.”

His honesty is charming. Your pout turns into something a bit more mischievous, but you’re still looking anywhere but his eyes. Right now, you’re actually focusing on the cute little moles splattered over his face. They’re adorable. He’s adorable.

As soon as the thought hits you, it’s as if a switch turned on in his brain, because one second his face is a couple of centimeters away and the next his chin is in the valley of your breasts, his head angled up so his slightly open lips hit the tip of your chin and his eyes lock directly into yours when the surprise finally makes you look.

The atmosphere is all of a sudden not light anymore. It’s so tense that you feel it in your core, in the tip of your nipples, in the roots of your hair. The fact that he has this much power over you makes you shiver, because that is a 23 years old guy you met not even a day ago, and this whole thing is pretty fucking terrifying. However, this is a question for later, because right now is not the time for thinking. Yeah, definitely not.

“I also wouldn’t mind being the predator,” he whispers against your jaw, and even though it’s a bit of a shitty pick up line and any other the corniness of it all would have made you cringe, right now it makes a quiver go down your spine, which has you straightening right into him.

Lando just looks at you after that, and with the deadly combo of both his eyes and his hands on you, it isn’t long before you let go of any rational thought holding you back.

He wins this one… but something in you tells you that this might be a win-win situation.

Your hands go up to the back of his head as a symbol of your defeat, and when you finally kiss him, Lando’s smiling.

He’s still smiling as he kisses you back and as he lets his fingers slowly reach under the back of your thong, playing with it, making you arch into him. It’s hot and it’s fast and it’s long overdue, and you’re so fucking glad that you gave in, because that is a man that knows how to kiss. His frame is solid under you, and your arms are around his wide shoulders and tangled in his hair as you can’t resist the urge to grind softly against him. The groan that escapes him is sinful, and it’s now your turn to smile, because it’s a very clear sign that you get to him just as much as he gets to you, and what a delightful thing that is.

You kiss and you kiss and you kiss for what feels like hours. He makes sounds that have your insides clenching and you feel him slowly getting harder under you, and you wonder out of the blue if 23 year old boys can still come untouched. It’s a fleeing thought, though, and you forget it as soon as he pulls you closer as if he can’t stand the mere idea of there being even just a tiny bit of empty space between your two bodies. As it stands, his tongue is in your mouth and his long fingers are so close to your cunt that it nearly hurts and you’re about to break it off to finally tell him to just fucking do it when your long-forgotten cellphone vibrates behind you, on the empty sofa where you left it.

You ignore it the first time, but when it vibrates again, and again, you unwillingly pull yourself away from Lando, who protests nearly whiningly (you’d never thought you’d ever say that but it is sexy as fuck) before throwing his head back, his breath, loud and erratic, sounding like music to your ear. Not to flex, but yeah, you’ve done that. It’s pretty fucking gratifying.

You blindly stretch back and grab your phone after a few tries, and Lando looks at you while you giggle at the screen. The light illuminates you in a way that makes you look alive, and he catalogues it all in his brain, just to remember that you’re real and not straight out of his teenage wet dreams. He stares under lowered eyelids at your fucked up, nearly fully gone lip liner, at your messy curls, at the little dark smudges of mascara under your eyes. He traces the ridges of your flushed face, the pretty pink apple of your cheeks, the way you bite your sensible, puffy lips as you smile at whatever the fuck you’re looking at on your phone. Lando can’t believe now that he first thought you were a random influencer, because it’s clear to him now that you’re not just a pretty girl in a sea of pretty girls. You’ve got this whole aura around you, and while he doesn’t really know you yet, there’s a feeling in his chest that makes him desperately want to.

He needs to snap out of it, though. This is not very Ibiza-party-boy chill of him.

“What’s so funny?” his voice comes out ragged, a bit worse for wear, and he doesn’t really try to do anything about it because in two minutes tops he plans to be back on track with his mouth fused to yours.

You shake your head, and you gaze up from the screen to lock eyes with him as you do.

“Nothing. Just the girls. They texted me to tell me that they’re about to leave,” you tell him, trying your best to not sound winded from the very intense snogging session that just happened, but failing miserably as your eyes can’t stop darting down to his now wet lips.

He hums lowly, nodding, and as he brings his hands up from your bum to your waist, holding you steady on his lap, he smirks slowly.

“Tell them we’re about to leave too, then.”

It’s now your turn to smile smugly, because yeah, that’s a pretty good plan.

“Should I also make sure to tell them to not wait up?”

He fakes thinking about it for five seconds or so, before nodding twice, nonchalantly, like you’re just two people discussing the weather and not the very intoxicating fact that in the next hour you are most definitely gonna end up naked under him in his bed.

“Yes, I think that’s a good idea, baby. You’re very smart, you know that?”

“Hm,” you shrug as you text back an update to the groupchat, ignoring the way his big hands are now gently cupping your breasts as if to give you a bit of a preview. “I’ve been told once or twice.”

You’re both grinning as you throw the phone back on the sofa behind you, and you run your hand through your hair to tame it a bit before gripping his forearms again, enjoying the feel of them flexing under your grasp. Ỳou inhale once, before boldly waggling your eyebrows at him in a way that has his own raising in glee.

“So… where were we?”

The door to his room doesn't even have the time to slam closed before the straps of your dress are off and this boy lets vintage couture hit the floor like the brute he is.

Normally you would complain at least a little bit, just for the sake of it, but with his tongue in your mouth and his grip on your arse, you're a bit too busy to care. Oh well, you'll send it to the dry cleaner when you're back in London.

That's not to say that you don't have your hands full too : you're unbuttoning his shirt (well, the last two buttons that weren't already undone) as fast as you can with your eyes closed and as soon as it's off, you're letting your fingers wander, tracing the ridges of his surprisingly robust chest and teasing a little bit as you go down, down, down...

Lando takes his mouth off yours and he huffs a laugh, his forehead leaning against yours for a second or two. "Ok. Bed. Now."

You certainly won't say no to such a wonderful offer.

You push him back towards the edge of it, and his eyes are on you as he backs up. You're naked, bar your Agent Provocateur thongs and your heels. The heat in his gaze has you shivering, but you keep your composure up. You're cool and composed when you kick the Miu Miu's off your feet, smiling a little bit, because this is all a show and you are a wonderful, wonderful performer. He's already lucky enough to just be looking at you, so of course you won't make it too easy a job for him to get you to the second act.

He's sitting on the bed, shirtless, hair a mess, when you walk towards him, and the way he tilts his head back to lock his eyes to yours has your smile widening. In this light, with the very early morning glow hitting the left side of his face just right, there's a glint in his gaze and the lines of his jaw, of his brow and of his nose are so sharp you inhale abruptly at the sight. This guy, this stranger, makes you go fucking crazy. You've never felt this much attraction to a one-night-stand, and you just know the next entry in your journal is gonna be titled "Lando". He doesn't know it, but he's just made it to the yearly "Men Of The Year" PowerPoint night with the girls.

You're still not speaking when you make it in between his thighs, and you just tilt your head a little when his fingers start toying with the sides of your panties. There's a duality in Lando that makes him both cute and sexy at the same time, and it's the type of duality you've only ever seen in the most famous of men you've worked with, which reminds you that yes, you are to about to fuck with a celebrity, and yes, that goes against every single rule you've followed diligently since the beginning of your career. Fortunately, you don't have the time to think too much about it, as he pulls you to sit on top of him and the feel of his warm skin on yours has you blanking.

The feel of his hands settling on your hips is grounding in a way that surprises you. Warm. Certain. Like he's been waiting for this exact moment forever and nothing else exists beyond the press of body on body and the soft dip of the mattress beneath you both.

For a second, you just sit there, thighs bracketing his, the room unbearably quiet except for the sound of your breathing — his a little uneven, yours carefully controlled. You can feel the tension coiled in him, the way his fingers flex ever so slightly, like he's restraining himself on purpose. It does something dangerous to you, that restraint. Makes your stomach tighten.

"You're so fucking gorgeous," Lando murmurs, voice low as if he doesn't want to disturb the peace, to cut the tension that's built between you.

You're smiling again, and your voice is just as low when you answer, but there's a hint of mischievousness in it that betrays your true feelings. "Thank you very much."

"Not even a you too? You meanie," he chides lightly, but with his smirking face in your neck and hard cock under you, you don't take it too personally.

"Hm, maybe later."

He's scoffing jokingly, and when he bites the top of your left tit in retribution, you gasp more out of outrage than of surprise, because of course this little brat would do something like this.

As a result, you pull his hair tightly. The moan that leaves his parted lips is a bit of a revelation, but once again not a surprise. Of course this puppy-eyed cocky bastard loves some good hair-pulling. Fork found in kitchen and all that.

He's back to kissing you before you can mock him a bit for it, though, so that'll be for later.

Five seconds later, he has you under him, so quickly that you can't really comprehend how the switch happened. You're so fucking wet that it doesn't matter, anyways. What actually matters is the fact that if in the next five minutes he isn't in you, you are going to actually lose your mind.

He's still kissing you when you take matters into your own hands, trying very hard to unbutton the top of his linen trousers with your hands that are shaking slightly in want. God, you want, you want, you want. You've never been this horny in what feels like forever. You'd like to say that it's not him, it's you being just a very sexual being in general, but you can't lie, his smell and his grip and his everything are getting to you.

He understands what you want quickly, and he helps you to get his trousers off, kicking them away when they get too far down for you to continue. You hum in gratitude and to thank him, because you're a very polite girl, you let your fingers finally flutter against his cock throughout the fabric of his boxers. You're not blind to the straightening of his spine and to the inhale he suddenly takes through his nose. He's so fucking affected by you that it makes you even wetter, which you didn't think could be possible all things considered.

Lando tries to hide how erratic his breath is getting, because the fact that he's literally about to come nearly untouched at the big age of 23 is incredibly embarrassing, as his long fingers come to clench on top of your breasts. You're shaking again, but the want is slowly turning into need and it's all getting a little bit too much. This is, literally, hour 3 or 4 of foreplay, now. Enough.

There's no more hesitation between you two, because it seems you've both come to the same conclusion in your heads. Lando's lips make their way to the valley of your breasts and his calloused fingers slide your thong down your thighs before coming back up to finally feel you. There's something in his eyes when he realizes how much you want this that has you arching into him, because you're not one to be all that thrilled at a man's approval, but he seems so proud of himself (and of you!!! in a weird way!!! this is all so weird!!!) that you're feeling yourself just get hotter and hotter as the moments and the feelings go on.

Your movements also get hasty, as if you're both running against the clock. You pull down his boxers just enough to finally get his cock out, and while you can't see with the way he's pressed against you, you can tell that it's pretty just by the feel of it against your palm. He's thick and veiny and so fucking hard it must hurt. He's also began to breathe choppily against you, as if he just ran past the finish line of a marathon. His strong thighs, which are holding him up over your, are starting to flex rhythmically like he's having a stroke, but no, it's actually just you. You stroke him once, twice, before Lando stops you, eyes closed, jaw clenched. His fingers leave your cunt, which he was lazily petting, surprisingly aware that you were too fired up for more and way too tired for two orgasms in a row, as he slowly starts to rise up from you.

You let up a disapproving noise when his heat leaves you, and with your eyelids low, you wrap your arms around his strong shoulders to keep him against you. No, wait, don't leave, fuck me!

"Wait, wait, wait," Lando nearly begs you, because with your lips pouting and your sad little eyes you're starting to make him feel bad for trying to be a good person. "I'm just getting a condom, baby, I'm not leaving. I'm not leaving."

He kisses your pout quickly, sneakily, and you hate to admit but his tone and his care make you melt.

"I genuinely couldn't leave if I wanted to, anyways. You've got me fucking drunk on that pussy," he mutters as he gets on his knees to reach the bedtable on the right side of the bed, and while this was definitely an inside thought, you're glad he says it because it makes you finally gain some control back over yourself.

"One more second with my hand over your cock and you were done for, by the way," you tease him, using this little break from the feverish sexual tension as an excuse to stretch your arms over your head to fight the tightness that's taken over your shoulders.

Lando nods quickly and his facial expression as he opens the drawer has you grinning, because you've never seen a man look both this horrified and this appalled by his own behaviour. "Oh, believe me, I'm very aware of that," he nearly squeaks, and the break in his composure makes you finally laugh out loud.

You're still giggling when he's suddenly back on top of you, ripping the condom wrapper off with his teeth and frowning at you in fake outrage. "You think that's funny, huh?"

You stop laughing at the sight, because he's tan and wrecked and glorious, but you just cannot stop being a fucking brat anyways, so, with your lip in between your teeth, you nod cheekily. He then nods back, but it is slow and measured, and the way his veins bulge against his thick neck grabs your attention, so you miss the way he takes his cock in his hands and rolls the condom over it. You're still laser-focused on his neck when his fingers end up in your hair and his grip tightens to pull your head back so you can finally look back into his eyes. You gasp, because yeah, sue you but you definitely match his freak when it comes to hair-pulling.

"You want it, hm?" he asks, and the sudden dirty talk has your brain shortcircuiting. Well hello there. "You want my cock?"

You're still biting your lower lip, and while it's starting to fucking hurt, you're grateful for it as it is the last thing holding you back from instantly nodding.

The situation is not in your favor. You're laying down and he's standing upright on his knees, holding his cock while he also holds your gaze. He's tan and there's a slight sheen of sweat over his bronzed skin that makes him glow, and the flexing of both his thighs and his biceps just highlight the sheer strength hiding in his somewhat unassuming body. That's the kind of build you associate with swimmers, in a way : broad shoulders, tight waist and very nice glutes. You think he would do wonderful in a pilates class.

"Come on, pretty, don't get shy on me all of a sudden," Lando adds before very voluntarily letting the tip of his prick hit your clit, and a surprised moan is the only answer you give him. "Yeah, I know, baby, you want it so fucking bad, right?"

Your hands are reaching for his chest against your will, because you just need to feel him. He, who is trying very hard to be in charge of the situation, lets you do it, because he's as hungry for it as you are. He even leans in, letting his navel hit yours and settle there, and you feel his toned stomach extending against yours as he breathes. The intimacy of it all is stifling.

You're undulating your hips under him, and every time the tip of his cock catches your clit, you exhale sharply. "L-Lando," you stutter with your eyes closed, because it's all too much, and you don't think you could give him the begging he wants right now even if you wanted to.

He's pussy-drunk, you're cock-stupid – what a fucking dream team.

"Ok, ok, baby," it's his turn to sound like he's choking on his own breath. "'m gonna fuck you, baby."

And fuck you he does.

As soon as he slips the tip in, you're arching into his body, your face pressing into the spot where his shoulder meets his neck. You're panting at the feeling, at the rightness of it, because this has been a long time coming. You simultaneously both sigh in bliss when he's fully in, because there he is and there I am and there we are finally together.

There's no pause, no break, no moment of hesitation. As soon as he is in your cunt, his hips go to work, and he starts pounding, to your absolute delight. It's so weird that this stranger seems to know exactly what you want when you want it, but you don't spend too much time questioning it because ever since you met Lando 4 hours ago, he proved that you're surprisingly very alike in way too many ways – a fact that is a bit scary considering you're a nearly 27 years old woman and he's a freshly 23 years old guy, and worse, a 23 years old professional athlete. You sure do hope that he's the one that is a bit too mature for his own age and not the opposite.

Your fingers are grasping at any part of him you can reach, and as he fucks into you with vigor, your nails find the middle of his back and press in, because you need to attach yourself to something, anything. Lando shudders against you when the pain hits him and it just makes him piston into you harder because yeah, it's confirmed, you're his fucking dream girl. He never doubted you would disappoint, but here you are, ticking all of his boxes one after the other without even knowing it.

While he's having an eye-opening realization (he never wants this night to end), you are too, but mostly because you're about to come for the first time from penetration alone. His big hands are so tight on your hips that it hurts, keeping you as close as humanly possible, and there is no stimulation other than his cock inside you and his pelvis deeply grinding into your clit with every back-and-forth of his own hips, but for once in your life, that is enough. There's something building slowly but surely in your chest, a feeling you can't name, you can't place, but it's sirupy and it's fluttery and it's undeniably good and special and beautiful.

If you were drunker, this is when you would say "I love you". Actually, you're now stone cold sober, and you're resisting the urge to do it. As you'd rather die than ever do that, you just moan against him, biting his soft skin to ground you to something solid, to something real.

His pace is unforgiving, and his hands have moved to your bum as soon as your legs wrapped around his waist to get him even closer. You're both so fucking loud it's a bit shameful, but there's no place for shame of any kind in a room that is already filled to the brim with so much lust and so much tension. He hits all the right places, all the spots that make you twitch and tweak and scream out in glee, and without any warning, you're coming.

It's loud and it's messy. It doesn't hit you in waves – it hits you like a fucking tsunami. You're panting and he's nearly fucking growling and you can't believe that this is your life. Thank God you came to the club tonight. Thank God you came to Ibiza. Thank God you were born, even. You wish you were exaggerating, and you know the girls are gonna laugh when you try to explain the feeling because you don't think you can put it into words, anyways, so you probably won't even try. This is going to stay yours, and yours only, for now – not like a dirty little secret, but more like a coveted gift from somebody you'll never ever see again.

Your hands are now in his hair, and Lando comes as you're scratching gently his scalp. His hips still into you abruptly and the moan he lets out is more of a whimper than anything, which has your spent brain clocking back in for a second to say nice before going back to an unconscious state. His breathing in your ear is labored as he falls back on top of you, still inside of you, and you both just take a minute to enjoy it, to soak in it. You inhale when he exhales, and your lethargic bodies are like two puzzle pieces that just fit into one another.

The room is silent again bar for your shared breathing, and your eyes close for a second, or probably more than that because the next time you come to, he's off of you with a fresh pair of boxers on as he's washing you clean with a warm water-soaked hand towel.

You hum at the feeling, and his head rises so his gaze can meet yours. The small smile that takes over his face is endearing, so the little bit of energy you still have in you is put to use to give him a lazy grin in return.

"Hi," he boyishly beams, and your heart twists in your chest at the sight. "I lost you for a minute there."

"I think I'm a little tired," you murmur back sluggishly.

It's the understatement of the year, as even bringing your hand up to try to fix your messy hair is a challenge in itself. You honestly think you just make the situation worse, and that is confirmed by the crinkling of his eyes and the toothy smile that just keeps growing bigger and bigger as the seconds go on.

"Go back to sleep then, pretty. I'll take care of everything."

You're about to do just that, lulled by his low voice and his heartwarming kindness, when your hand shakily reaches out towards the wall against which you dropped your purse and your cellphone when you first arrived. "My phone... Can you..."

"I've already plugged it in. Go to sleep, girlboss, your emails will still be there tomorrow," he quips cheekily.

Your eyes close with the thought of fuck, I think I could love this man.

A week later, when you're back home in your London flat and a verified account with a couple of millions of followers requests to follow your very private Instagram account, the memory of this thought alone is enough to have you deciding that you will not press the blue accept button.

Not yet, not now. There's no place in your life right now for a pretty boy with pretty eyes and even prettier words, and if you're honest with yourself, that is unfortunately ultimately for the better.

Luckily for Lando, however, fate works in mysterious ways – which is exactly what he tells himself when he catches a glimpse of you in the Spa-Francorchamps paddock seven months later.