Peachy @peachybrook - Tumblr Blog

Jan 25

LN4: GETAWAY CAR

you don’t like lando. lando doesn’t like you. but with priceless paintings and thousands of euros on the line, it seems both of you will have to suck it up for the sake of the job.

pairing: art thief!reader x getaway driver!lando norris

contents: alternate universe: non-f1, rivals to lovers sort of, workplace romance except the workplace is a heist, lots and lots of swearing, implied violence, crime, lando being a smug shit, open ending, everyone in this is a criminal except for ollie bearman.

word count: 10.6k

eve’s notes: heist au!! finallly!!!! it only took like half a year :D also can you believe i had to make an account at an art auction site for this. wild.

BRUSH STROKES OF SILK BLUE. Daubs of gold. A smear of bronze. You prop your chin over your mop as you gaze at the painting with a pleased smile on your lips. Faint cracks by the edges, yellowed paint—the passing of time, clearly. Still, despite the faint signs of age, you have to admire the near pristine state of the artwork.

“You look pensive,” Charles notes, rolling the cleaning cart beside you. The cleaning coveralls you both wear are dull enough to make you feel like a smatter of gray on a lackluster wall. A sun-timed shadow, even though night has long since set in. Carlos can be heard shuffling a few steps behind, never one to appreciate the quality of true artwork.

You tilt your head appreciatively. You can’t help but imagine just how much more beautiful the painting would look like beneath the sunlight, as opposed to the clinically artificial lights that are on for the night shift.

“It’s one of my favorites,” you hum.

“La carta, right?” Carlos asks. He kisses his teeth and tilts his head. He does that weird jaw thing that’s long been a habit of his whenever he’s thinking, his own mop in his hand. “It’s just a woman with a letter.”

You don’t even need to glance at the metal plaque beside it—you know the facts by heart. One forty-one by eighty-three point five centimeters. Oil on canvas. Pedro Lira’s The letter.

“It’s more than that. It’s about what you can’t see,” you start, gesturing appreciatively. Distantly, you hear the last cleaning cart squeaking away onto the next room. “She’s hiding the letter behind her. She’s alone, but she’s facing the door, and you can see light coming from there, so someone is coming. Someone who’s not meant to see the letter she’s received.” You exhale. You’ve seen the painting in your textbook for weeks, but there’s no denying how all the more breathtaking it is in person. “It’s an anti-portrait. We get to see her secret, but not her face.”

A beat passes. Two. Carlos exhales impatiently. “No, I think it’s just a woman with a letter.”

You spare a glance at Leclerc, who seems to agree. “Et tu, Charles?” You shake your head with a disappointed sigh. “You two have no appreciation for fine art.”

Charles chuckles. “Oh, trust me. I have plenty.” He glances off to the side and something crosses his gaze, his expression growing more serious.

Charles is looking at you when he asks the question all three of you had been waiting for. “Ready?”

You feel the telltale buzz of static in your ear. Alex’s voice is loud and clear. “Alarms are off and exit route is clear. Eighty seconds start now.”

By the corner of your eye, you can see the red light of the camera flickering off. The regular cleaning crew has long deserted the room, leaving all three of you in your matching gray coveralls and black cleaning crew caps.

Eighty seconds.

You know the plan by heart because it was drilled into your head more times than you can appreciate. You know the service exit you’re supposed to take, the angles the cameras are facing, the amount of time it will take from the hallway to the inconspicuous car that will be waiting for you in the back alley. A clean break, Max had insisted. All as long as you make it out before your window of time is up.

Charles reaches for the painting, sparing one last glance at the cameras before taking it into his hands. You resist the urge to tell him to be careful with it. It’s beautiful, yes, but one scratch and the value decreases exponentially.

Satisfied, Carlos says, “Let’s go.”

The world turns red in a blink. You flinch at the loud, blaring noise.

Shit. Shit.

“That was not eighty seconds, Alex!” you hiss, wincing at the ear-piercing sound of the security system loudly announcing your unwelcome presence.

“The alarm is off!” Alex shoots back.

“Clearly not!”

“Everything’s fine on my end. Whatever tripped the alarm—that’s on you,” he retorts, and that’s easy to say from the safety of the meeting room, away from the absolute shit show that is about to unfold.

“Putain,” Charles curses.

The plan was simple. A clean break. You wouldn’t even need to run—just hide the painting in the cleaning cart and walk calmly to the service exit.

The sirens are making your spin. The red is dizzying. Burgundy. Amaranth. Crimson. To make matters worse, you’re certain you hear footsteps hurrying along the halls.

Then, as if on cue—“Stop right there!”

“Me cago en mi puta vida,” Carlos swears, and seeing the security guards standing a room’s length from you finally makes your survival instincts kick in.

“I am not going to jail for this,” you say—and you fucking bolt.

Carlos and Charles are hot on your tail—but so is security.

The walls bleed red with the lights. Carmine. Rosso Corsa. You make a sharp turn left. Service exit. Service exit.

“Alex, if the car’s not there, I’m slicing your fucking arm off.”

“Less talking and more running,” Alex responds, his voice sounding even more staticky than before as all three of you barrel down the narrow tunnel. Your steps are loud, too loud, and you have enough sense to duck your head to avoid getting hit by an industrial pipe.

A loud clang echoes behind you, followed by a sharp shout. Seems one of the security guards wasn’t as lucky.

“Door’s up ahead,” Alex informs you.

Carlos doesn’t waste time glancing behind before he pries the heavy metal door open. Given the loud, shrill sound the door makes, you gather it’s not as easy as he makes it look. You quietly thank the day Max had the foresight to hire Carlos as well.

As promised, there’s a car awaiting for you—a sleek red car with a loud rumbling engine.

“What is this?” you ask breathlessly. This isn’t subtle. This is the opposite of subtle.

“Just get in.” Carlos opens the passenger door and takes his seat. You swallow the other comments resting on your tongue and hurry onto the backseat. Love it when a plan comes together.

As you’re climbing onto your seat, you catch a glance of the driver behind the wheel—someone who is decidedly not the Aussie you know. In fact, it’s someone unfamiliar and younger—much younger.

Your entire face twists as you latch your hand onto the back of Carlos’ headrest. “Are you kidding?” you ask rhetorically as Charles haphazardly climbs onto his spot. You glance at the Spaniard with disbelief. “Who’s this—your nephew?”

The driver ignores you, rolling his eyes. “Who’s this—your wife?” he parrots back. You’re fairly sure you can see the white stick of a lollipop poking out from the corner of his mouth.

Both Carlos and you accidentally meet each other’s gazes. Carlos scowls. You shudder, sliding back onto your seat. “Gross.”

Carlos exhales exasperatedly. “Just drive, Lando.”

The engine rumbles even louder than before, and the car dashes out of the alley. You lay back against the headrest, only to catch a glance of the driver in the rearview mirror.

Charles peers at you, arms empty now that he has left the painting in the trunk. Buildings and street signs blur past you. “What’s with all the complaints today?”

You glare at him. Alarms. Security. Fleeing on the least inconspicuous car to have ever been made—and the police probably well on their way. “Max is gonna have all of our asses. We’re freakin’ fucked.”

The car turns sharply at an intersection, making your head slam against the window. Pain sparks from your temple near immediately. “Fuck!”

“Y’should watch your head,” Lando calls out, and you can see the conniving little smirk on his lips on the rearview mirror. He doesn’t spare you a glance as he shrugs. “And your mouth.”

To say Max isn’t happy with you all would be the understatement of the century. The silver lining, you suppose, is that he hasn’t yet started yelling.

There’s still plenty of time, though.

You watch as Max runs a hand through his face exasperatedly. You shift on your spot. The warehouse feels distinctly colder than it did when you left earlier today.

Carlos stands beside you, body wired and tense. Annoyed. He glances at Alex before finally asking, “What was with the alarms?”

Alex straightens on his chair, clearing his throat awkwardly. “I was, uh, checking that.” His chair spins to the side a little. He pointedly looks away from Max. At this point, you know that even making eye contact with him at in ill-timed moment could be enough to finally spark his temper. “My working theory is that the museum must’ve done a few security upgrades. Something that wasn’t in the original blueprints that Charles gave me.”

Charles arches a brow. “So, it is my fault?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Your face scrunches. “Why?”

Alex shrugs. “Well, maybe the blueprints were a little dated, but that doesn’t mean Charles is to blame for—”

“No, I mean—why would a museum upgrade their security system so recently? So suddenly?”

Lando clicks his tongue, legs resting on a table by the corner of the warehouse. “Maybe they’ve seen the news,” he supplies, vague disinterest dripping from his tone.

You fold your arms over your chest, jaw ticking. You narrow your eyes at the new driver. “Or maybe they were tipped off.”

Lando’s brows knit-together as he meets your gaze. “What’re you looking at me for?” he scoffs. “I’m no snitch.”

Max calls your name, and you stifle a flinch. “That’s enough,” he says with an air of finality. You bite the inside of your cheek. “You’re staying to check the state of the painting. I want you to arrange a meeting with the buyer you’ve got lined up. Text me the information when you get it.”

“Fine—I mean, yeah. Sure.”

Carlos takes that as his cue. And now that you’ve all changed out of your gray coveralls, with him now wearing his usual long-sleeved black tee, he reaches for his duffle bag and slings it over his shoulder. He shares a look with Max as he straightens. “I’ll be waiting for my cut,” Carlos says pointedly.

Charles follows shortly, lightly nudging your shoulder. “See you next week?” he asks you, and you nod.

And then, as per usual, all that’s left is Max, Alex, and you. Well. Plus the new uninvited presence. You side-glance at Lando, who’s still scrolling on his phone, biting on the plastic stick of his lollipop. His legs rest on the table, recklessly swinging back on his chair. You resist the urge to tell him to cut it out before he falls and breaks his face.

Before you can fish for another argument, your phone buzzes in your hand, and the screen lights up with a notification from Alex. You furrow your brows at him, to which he subtly tilts his head towards the new driver. You tap the file he sent you.

It’s a police record.

Lando Norris. Your eyes skim through it. Illegal street racing. Reckless driving. So, he’s been arrested before.

“Alex,” Max calls.

“Hm?”

“The security system. Check what’s different.”

“It doesn’t work like that,” Alex responds, face scrunched up. “I’ve said it a hundred times—that’s just cinema bullshit. I need the updated schematics to do a full review. I also need to see it in person, or at least to be in the vicinity. Movies always make it seem so easy but it’s really not—”

“Albon.”

The sharpness of Max’s tone makes him puff out his cheeks. “Tomorrow. I’ll go tomorrow to see it in person.”

Max nods, his index and thumb rubbing against his eyes. He strides towards Alex, leaning over to see his computer screen. “Walk me through what went wrong today.”

Alex and Max’s voices settle into the background as you turn your focus back to the new face in the warehouse. Charles, Carlos and Alex didn’t seem all that surprised about Lando’s presence—which begs the question, were you the only one that wasn’t told, or simply the only one that cared?

You’re sitting down across from Lando before you can think better of it.

“Street racing,” you say, and he doesn’t even raise his gaze from his phone. You inch closer to him, tilting your head. “That’s what you were doing before this? Street racing?”

Green eyes flick up to you. There’s an unreadable glint in his gaze you can’t seem to place. “Did you do a background check on me already?” he drawls. “I’m flattered.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “What’s with the change in career paths?”

He pulls his legs off the table, leaning his torso towards you. Lando shrugs, assessing you. “What’s with the sudden interest?”

“I wanna know who I’m in bed with.” Lando scoffs a laugh, and you don’t miss the way his eyes deliberately drop across your frame. You can practically see the comment resting on his tongue, so you quickly correct, “Who I’m working with.”

Lando clicks his tongue, appearing uninterested. “I don’t work with you. I work with Carlos—for Max now, apparently.”

“Mhm. Semantics.” You wave him off. That’s not the information you’re here for. “How many jobs have you pulled with him?”

Lando straightens at that, faux-surprised expression falling on his face. Finally, it seems, you’ve piqued his interest. “Oh, he hasn’t told you?” The corner of his lips twitches upward into a smirk. He lets out a low whistle. “Sounds like trouble in paradise to me.”

You give him a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes. “Team chemistry’s at an all time high. We’re fine.”

Lando reaches beside you for his keys, and you feel his scent wash over you. Some expensive cologne. Sweat. Pine. He arches a brow, looking annoyingly smug. “Clearly.”

His chair screeches against the floor as he stands up and heads out. Before he does, you call out: “Did you at least win a few races?”

Lando chuckles, walking backwards as he gives you a self-assured shrug. “What do you think?”

Sunlight seeps through the overhead skylight as you stride down the gallery. Today, your outfit is a far cry from the gray coveralls Max had you wear two weeks ago. Instead of looking like the cleaning crew, today you’re wearing expensive clothes provided by Max—from where, you never ask—to play the part of the interested potential buyer. Nothing too showy, but classy enough to blend in among the other buyers wandering around in the gallery.

Charles wanders around the opposite side of the room, not wanting to seem like the two of you arrived together. He studies the angles of the cameras, the amount of security guards posted around the halls while you study the paintings. Even with your sunglasses on, you can tell the paintings from a distance. A Bogdanov-Belsky by the exit, a Caillebotte at your left, a Sisley on your right.

You stop your walk around the room as you find yourself face-to-face with a Theodore Robinson work that seems familiar, but you can’t quite remember the name of. You read the plaque recently installed next to it. A Trout Stream, Normandy.

“So,” Charles prompts, moving to stand beside you as he analyzes the painting in front of you. He looks nothing like he did a week ago—definitely not like someone who was stealing a prized piece of artwork with you. A matching pair of sunglasses are perched on his nose. “Thoughts on the new driver?”

You roll your eyes. “He’s a pain in the ass,” you mutter, tilting your head as you move onto the next painting. It’s a Monet. You sigh, turning to Charles. “I miss Danny.”

Charles chuckles at that. “I get it. But Lando… he’s a decent enough driver—rough edges and all.”

You’re not sure you believe it all that much. Still, you murmur, “And that’s all we need, right?” You click your tongue, tilting your head appreciatively. “She’s beautiful.”

Charles nods, watching the painting. “She really is.”

“Vue de la tour Montalban,” you hum. The one you’d been keeping an eye out for. “I have to say, it’s not my favorite Monet. It even feels out of place in this gallery, doesn’t it?” You kiss your teeth. “Can you believe she’s going for three million euros?”

“Auction is in two weeks.” There’s a thrilling look spreading across Charles’ face. He meets your gaze. “How’s three million split six ways sound to you?”

Now that brings a smile to your lips. “Make it rain.”

There are many upsides to working with Max. He’s meticulous. Likes to make sure you understand the layout of the place before throwing you into action. He always has a plan, if not, then an outline to be worked upon. He’s fast, and all you need to do is keep track of what he says about the job and learn it by heart. You appreciate that about him—that feeling that he always seems to value other people’s time. At least, you think that’s it. It could also be that he’s always in a rush to get things done and move on with them.

Today, the layout of the warehouse feels remarkably like being back at school. You sit on a chair with a desk attached to it, along with a notepad and a pen in hand. Usually, you don’t have an issue—usually. You take notes, you finish them at work, you do your research, and you’re done. But today—today your notes are not nearly as thorough as you’d like them to be.

Lando’s leg is bouncing against your chair. It makes your jaw tick, your concentration dwindle. Your chair creaks, and your patience frays.

You spin your head around, frustration evident. “Do you mind?”

Lando is relaxedly sprawled against his chair, pen tapping incessantly against his desk. He doesn’t even have anything to write on. He raises a brow at you, tilting his head. “What’re you on about?”

“You’re kicking my chair,” you hiss. You think you hear Alex snort, but you make a point to ignore him. “Cut it out.”

“What? ‘M not even doing anything.” Lando rolls his eyes, and there’s just something about him—an aura of smugness that seems to ripple from him in waves—that grates at you. You bite your tongue, lock your jaw, and turn around to face Max, who thankfully hasn’t cut his explanation short.

Max projects two pictures of the gallery. Hallways, rooms, camera angles and security placement—all courtesy of Charles and the gallery’s Instagram page. Your pen scratches on the yellowed paper before the bouncing against your chair starts again.

You whip your head around. “Are you five?”

He has his pen cap between his teeth when he responds with a shrugged: “What’s your problem?”

You scoff in disbelief. “My problem?”

“Lando,” Carlos says. Lando’s jaw ticks as he turns his gaze away from you, and it’s only then that you notice the slight furrow of his brows, the faintest traces of confusion embedded there.

For a moment, he looks like he’s going to defend himself. His leg bounces in its place, accidentally nudging against your chair again. He seems to opt for a different option, and instead, he says, “If you think the cops are expecting another robbery,” he starts, slowly, “wouldn’t it be smarter to steal from some low-security gallery? Or a museum with an eighty-something old security guard?” He licks his lips, running a hand through his curls as he leans back against his chair. “I just—doesn’t an auction seem too high profile?”

Charles shares an amused smile with you before he twists around in his chair to face Lando. “That’s the beauty of it.”

His jaw ticks. “Enlighten me.”

“It’s a rich people auction,” you say, as if that explains it. Lando stares at you, as if to say, you’re doing this on purpose. And yeah, maybe you are. Maybe you like seeing him not looking so smug. “Rich people think they’re untouchable. Like they exist on a whole different plane. They’ll do adjustments—showy things, like making more security guards stand at the entrance—but nothing that will inconvenience their precious costumers.

“No security system updates. No metal detectors. Nothing,” Alex adds with a relaxed shrug. “Works in our favor.”

Lando taps his pen against the desk. You’re enjoying this more than you should—finally seeing him realize he might be out of his depth. Or, at the very least, that he’s the outsider here.

Finally, he shrugs, leaning back against his chair. “If you say so.”

Strokes of green and viridian. Splashes of the pale purples and pinks of orchids. Touches of white jasmines and buttery-yellow tulips. The floral scent of hibiscus and roses always helps you concentrate—and, truly, you cannot bring yourself to understand why people go out of their way to study in noisy coffee shops when flower shops are always quieter, more welcoming environments.

Maybe it’s just you. Though, you suppose it helps that during most days it’s just Ollie and you.

You re-tie your apron as you turn the page on your art book, where you find a description on Claude Monet’s Vue de la tour Montalban. You lean closer to the counter, shifting your notepad as you write down, oil on canvas. 61.2 by 81.7 centimeters. Executed in 1874. Pending history of provenance. You draw a little asterisk there to remind yourself to check that later. Buyers rarely care for the past ownership of paintings, but in the case they do, it’s always useful to have it researched and ready.

The bell from the shop dings, and you don’t bother looking up. At this hour, it’s usually kids that never buy anything—or customers that take too long to decide and make a hundred turns around the store. Still, you chime, “welcome! Let me know if I can help you with anything.”

Your attention is still set on your art book, reading the small note underneath the painting’s description. Monet’s first trip to the Netherlands was not a pleasant journey in search of new subject matters, but a necessity of politics. After Monet, his wife Camille and their baby spent the Franco-Prussian War—

A man stops just behind the counter, setting down a bouquet of pink roses. It forces you to look away from your work and put on your customer-service smile. “How can I—”

Your entire body grows cold, ice pricking against your skin. Those smug, annoying green eyes peer back at you, brows raised in slight surprise and lips curved upward.

“Oh, look who it is,” Lando drawls, looking disgustingly amused. “What is it, sweet little florist by day, art thief by night?” He drums his fingers against the counter, turning his head to scan around the shop. “It’s a nice place you got, by the way. Do you own it, or just work shifts?”

Finally, you find your voice. “What the hell?” Your thoughts are running too fast for you to properly process them. How is he here? How did he find you? “You need to leave. Now.”

Lando leans against the counter, arms folded over it. He’s not looking all that different from the other few times you’ve seen him. Black hoodie, dark jeans. He has the hood down this time, revealing unruly curls that somehow look in disarray but in a stylish manner.

Lando narrows his eyes. “What? So you can run background checks on me, but it’s wrong when I do it?”

You barely have time to spare a glance and check whether Ollie is in the near vicinity when you reach for the strings of his hoodie and yank him down to your level.

You glare at him. “What if I showed up to your place of work, huh?”

Lando snorts, unmoved by the sudden closeness. “I don’t work. Y’think driving cars for Max is a side-gig? I don’t double as Uber.”

“You are way out of line just by being here. Do you have any idea—”

Ollie calls your name from the back, making you stiffen. You let go of Lando’s clothes and turn around, hoping you don’t look as on-edge as you feel.

Ollie stands by the hydrangeas, matching white apron tied around his waist. “Hey, everything okay?” he asks softly, momentarily glancing at Lando. Ollie stands straighter, jaw tensing, as if trying to intimidate him. He turns back to you, traces of concern evident in his voice. “Is he bothering you?”

You blink. Then, you smile. “Ah. No—we’re okay. Thanks, Ollie.”

He nods, though unconvinced. He spares Lando one last look before going to water the lilies.

Ollie is barely out of earshot when Lando grins. “Someone has a crush,” he says in sing-song tone. It makes your eye twitch. “I get it. The whole girl-next-door, girl working at the flower shop vibe must work wonders for you.”

Your jaw ticks, a retort already posed on the tip of your tongue—but you can see Ollie lingering out of the corner of your vision. He’s a worrier—usually, it’s a good trait that favors him. He’s never late. The flowers under his care rarely ever die. He’s lended you his keys more times than you can count. But the last thing you need right now is another set of ears and eyes on Lando.

You bite your tongue until it bleeds. You smile, reaching for his pink roses. “Will that be cash or card?”

Afternoon air feels cold inside the warehouse as you pace, fists angrily clenched at your sides as you finally stop.

Max raises an unimpressed brow from his seat. “Are you done?”

“He went to where I work, Max!” There’s anger in your voice, indignation—but also something you haven’t quite placed yet. You still can’t get over Lando’s sheer audacity. “Not even Charles has that information.”

Alex raises his hand from his seat, noodles stuffed into his mouth. “I do.”

“That’s not the point.”

Max sighs, blue eyes scanning the printed documents you gave him. All the relevant information you could get on the painting you’ll be stealing from the auction—from the name to the possible prince ranges to the material of the frame. His eyes flick up to you, uninterested. “I’ll get Carlos to talk to him.”

Your jaw twitches. “Should’a bashed his fucking nose in the second he stepped in.”

“Don’t,” Max says, waving his hand, never looking away from your notes. “That could severely impair his ability to drive.”

“And we need a driver.” Alex supplies helpfully.

“Do your best not to damage him, yes?”

Your voice is quiet and barely restrained when you reply, “No promises.”

Lando is late. Which isn’t good—for a number of reasons. Starting with the fact that you’re stealing the painting from the Wolff auction tonight. It’s quite a sight you’re left with as you all wait for Lando to show up. Carlos and Max are wearing black suits and matching bow ties, while you wear a black silk dress and flats. Alex, on the other hand, is lucky enough to stay wearing a baby blue hoodie and jeans while he lounges in front of his monitors.

“If he doesn’t get here soon, we’re gonna be behind schedule,” Alex notes.

You fold your arms over your chest, a knowing scoff escaping you. “Didn’t I say he was unreliable?”

“He’ll be here,” Carlos says gruffly.

The door to the warehouse slides open as Lando steps in, looking out of breath. “Sorry! I’m here.”

You don’t realize you’re staring until Lando throws you a look that says what are you looking at? His hair is more messy than usual, the buttons of his dress shirt halfway undone as he fixes his suit jacket, no tie in sight. “Hell has frozen over.”

Lando rolls his eyes. “I couldn't find a tux on such short notice. I had to borrow it from a friend.”

“Why are you wearing a suit? You’re the getaway driver. Drivers don’t need to dress up.”

Lando clicks his tongue. “Y’know, for once, we’re actually in agreement, sunshine.”

“There’s been a change of plans,” Max states.

“Change of plans?” Max never changes his plans. Ever. He’s thorough, he’s precise—he doesn’t make changes because he doesn’t miscalculate. “Why?”

Max runs his ringed fingers across his jaw. “Charles isn’t making it tonight.” Your brow twitches. You’d assumed the reason Charles wasn’t here already was because he’d be meeting with you at the auction. “Some detective brought him in for questioning. He’s fine.”

“Is he?” Lando asks.

Max arches a brow, as if surprised Lando was the one to question him. “He will be, once we pull off this job without him and cops rule him out as a suspect.”

You start running the scenario in your mind. It doesn’t work—surely Max has realized that it doesn’t work. “I thought you said this was a four person job. Distraction, two for extraction, look out.”

“It is.” Max glances at Lando.

The protest is on your tongue before he can elaborate. “No, no. He is not replacing Charles—”

Lando seems just as opposed to the idea, protesting, “I’m the driver, breaking into auctions is not in my job description—”

Max pinches his nose, raising his hand to silence the two of you. “It’s either Lando or Alex.”

You don’t even blink. “Then it’s Alex.”

The man in question flinches in his chair.

“That’s not—it can’t be Alex, I need him shutting down the security system remotely and erasing any trace of us ever being there.”

“I don’t get why you can’t just contact Danny.”

Carlos shrugs. “Last I heard, he has the feds on his ass. We shouldn’t touch him with a ten foot pole.”

“Really?” You sigh. “Damn. I liked Danny.”

“Forget about Daniel,” Max says, exasperated. He meets your gaze. “Lando’s coming with—either get on board or get out.”

The car ride to the auction is quiet. Until—

“Are you even aware of the plan?”

Lando rolls his eyes so far back he probably gets a glimpse of his brain. “Are you even aware of the meter-long stick you’ve got up your arse? It’s a wonder you can even sit down—”

“Ya, suficiente. You two are acting like children,” Carlos groans into his palm, looking out the window.

“She started it,” Lando mutters, parking the car into the alley. For once, he’s chosen a vehicle that’s actually inconspicuous—no neon paint or an overly-loud engine, but just a sleek black car.

“We’ll go in first. Wait five minutes after us, so we don’t go in as a group. Carlos and I will go out the back,” Max explains. “Remember—eight security guards. You just need to distract the two that are posted outside of the room, and we’ll handle the rest.”

“Got it,” Lando says.

Max and Carlos step outside of the car, closing the doors behind them. Lando drums his fingers against the wheel, watching the two walk up to the entrance of the auction building. You stare at him from the backseat. A moment passes.

“Could you really not find a tie?”

Lando twists in his seat. “Can you lay off?” He glares at you. You meet it evenly. He’s the first to look away, muttering under his breath.

You roll your eyes. Instead of responding, you reach for your clutch, open the door of the car, and exit.

“Oi, five minutes are not—”

You open the door to the passenger seat and sit down. Lando looks at you weirdly, so you ignore him. You open your clutch, sifting through its contents. “Button up the rest of your shirt.”

“So, you’re giving orders now too, sunshine?”

“Quiet being so difficult.” Reluctantly, Lando does as you tell him. “And stop calling me sunshine.”

Lando scoffs, lips curving up into a smirk. “Why? I think it’s fitting. What with your sunny personality and all.”

You roll your eyes—and, really, that’s starting to become a habit whenever you’re around Lando. Finally, you pull out a rolled-up black tie from your clutch. You straighten it, making sure there are no visible creases and that it looks presentable enough.

You turn to Lando, and not trusting him to put it on properly, you wrap it around his neck. He leans closer to you, and you can feel his breath fanning against your forehead

“Why do you have a tie just on you?”

“It was for Charles,” you say, intent on making the perfect Windsor knot. “He had asked me to bring one for him. Guess it’s your lucky day.”

Lando snorts. “Yeah, right. Lucky.” It occurs to you at that very moment that Lando might not have experience with this type of job. That he might be nervous. You’re starting to consider offering some words of encouragement when Lando interrupts. “So, you and Charles, huh?”

“Me and Charles, what?”

“Y’know.” He shrugs. “You’re always paired up. You seem close. You had his tie in your purse.” You finish with his tie, but don’t pull back. Lando’s green eyes suddenly feel scrutinizing. “If you’re keeping it a secret from Max or something, you’re doing a shit job at it.”

You furrow your brows. Then, realization. A laugh bubbles out of you, and Lando has the sense to look surprised. “Charles and I aren’t… we’re not together, or anything. We’re friends.”

“…With benefits?”

You pull away from him. “You’re disgusting.”

Static sparks in your ear and Alex pipes up, “Look out and distraction. Can we get a move on?”

“Yep, on it,” you respond.

Getting inside is no issue—not when you both already look the part and Alex has gotten your fake names on the list. The hallways are well lit, a handful of collectors and potential bidders still wandering around, taking in the artwork that will be up for auction in an hour or two.

You’re about to get into position when you spot it, just out the corner of your eye. Forest greens. Splashes of blue. Bold strokes of red.

You’re walking up to the painting before you can think better of it. After tonight, it’s probably going to go into some rich person’s private gallery. You trace the metal plaque installed beside it—not that you need to read it, anyway. You know everything about it already.

Lando strides and settles beside you, hands inside the pockets of his slacks.

“Anémones, by Claude Monet,” you say absentmindedly. It’s part of a large collection—forty paintings with similar motifs—though you doubt Wolff managed to get possession of any others. Most of them have been tucked away from the public, belonging to miscellaneous private collections. “You know, I think this one is one of my favorites of his. He spent around four years just painting flowers for this collection—once, he actually said, I perhaps owe it to flowers for having become a painter.” More quotes of his come to mind, unbidden, from those late nights you spent studying to get your degree. What I need most are flowers, always, always.

You sigh, pulling away from it, feeling Lando’s attentive eyes on you.

“It’s tiny,” Lando says, as if the painting has personally wronged him.

“It’s not about the size.”

He chuckles. “D’you find yourself saying that a lot?”

The urge to smack him is strong. You stifle it. Instead, you turn to the artwork once again. Try to commit each brushstroke to memory—to appreciate the fact that, at least, you get to see it in person. One of the perks of the job, you suppose. “It’s just—sad. It’ll probably never be seen by anyone else again. Maybe it’ll even end up in some warehouse, gathering dust.”

“Why don’t you buy it, then?”

You exhale, tilting your head. “‘Cause it’s probably going for over 1.5 million euros.”

Lando coughs loudly, as if choking on air. He draws a few eyes your way. “1.5 million? For some shitty little painting of flowers?” Disbelief is evident in his voice. “Why would anyone spend that much to throw it in some warehouse? Scratch that—why would anyone spend that much period?”

“Rich people shit,” you murmur with a shrug, careful not to be overheard. “Auctions are for art collectors, sure—but there’s also uninformed millionaires with money to spend. And when there’s more of those—well, these things tend to become a dick measuring contest among them.”

Lando furrows his brows. He pokes his cheek with his tongue, thinking. “This isn’t the painting we’re here for, though.”

That snaps you back to reality. “No,” you say, sobering up. “It’s not.” But maybe a part of you wishes it was.

“Are you in position?” Alex asks through your earpiece. You hum in response, but don’t move.

Lando arches a brow, expectant. “So? Are you the distraction?”

This isn’t happening. “Yeah, Lando. I’m gonna bat my eyelashes and flash the security guards.” He blinks at you. Oh, he’s fucking clueless. “God, get a grip. I’m lookout. You’re distraction.”

His eyes widen comically. “What?” he asks, a little too loudly. “Is that true?” he hisses.

You can practically see Alex shrugging from the comforts of his seat. “You’re a lot more reckless than she is. You make for a better diversion.”

“What—What do I do?” His Adam’s apple bobs. “I don’t know how to be a fuckin’ distraction!”

Your smile drips with saccharine. “But you do it so naturally.”

Lando inhales deeply, and then moves towards the center of the room. Besides him, there’s a table with champagne glasses and hors d’oeuvres. He lingers there, awkwardly, occasionally glancing at the two bodyguards posted outside of the room Max and Carlos have to get into.

You wince, tilting your head. It’s like staring at a car crash—tragic, terrible, but you can’t look away.

“He’s floundering,” you say. “Oh my god. Just pull on the freakin’ table cloth and break the glasses. What are you doing?”

Lando approaches one of the security guards, as if trying to establish conversation, but it doesn’t seem to work.

Unbelievable.

“We’re gonna miss the window,” Alex tells you.

You close your eyes, swallowing a groan. Damn it. “I’m going in.”

As Lando goes back to the table with the appetizers, you make a show of picking up one of the champagne flutes. Lando furrows his brows as he sees you, and you gesture for him to step closer to you.

He runs a hand through his curls, tugging at his hair. “Look, I don’t think I’m—”

“Oh my god, why do you keep following me?” you ask loudly, drawing the attention of multiple potential buyers and art collectors.

Lando’s eyes widen, glancing around. “What are you doing?”

You yank your hand back. “Let go of me!” you exclaim, making more heads turn. You can feel the eyes of the entire room on the two of you, all meaningless conversation ceasing near instantly.

“I’m not touching you,” Lando hisses.

A man side-steps you. A security guard, if the uniform means anything. He looks down at you. “Miss, is this man bothering you?”

Lando forces a smile, moving his hands in an attempt of a placating gesture. “This is all a big misunderstanding—”

“Sir, I’m gonna need you to back up.” He gestures at the other security guard to join. He settles behind Lando, a hand resting on his shoulder to prevent him from doing anything rash. The older security guard turns to you. “Ma’am?”

You widen your eyes. “Thank you so much, sir. He won’t stop following me. I’ve told him I’m not interested but he keeps—”

Finally, Lando seems to catch on to what you’re doing. “She’s lying, she’s a liar,” Lando declares loudly, dragging out the words. He makes a gesture as if trying to wave off the security guards. “She was all over me like a minute ago.”

You’re certain you hear a gasp somewhere in the room. You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to swallow a laugh. Oh, is this what we’re doing now? If Lando thinks you’re one to back down from a challenge, then he’s sorely mistaken.

“That was before I found out you were engaged!” you cry out, whipping your head back to the security guard, reaching for his shirt dramatically. “Can you believe it?” you ask, and the man blinks down at you blankly. “His fiancé is probably at home, wondering why he’s stuck at work—meanwhile he’s feeling me up in a closet!”

You watch as Lando bites the inside of his cheek. He coughs to cover up a laugh.

“It was a very nice closet.”

“You are unbelievable—”

“Okay, I’m going to have to ask you two to leave,” the first security guard says, all too aware of the sudden quiet that has fallen over the room.

“Me? But he’s the one that—I came for the auction, I was—”

“Ma’am, please, it’s better if we handle this outside.” The way his palm latches onto your shoulder tells you it’s less of a suggestion and more of an order.

“Outside? But I don’t want—”

“They have it,” Alex says.

“—on second thought, going outside sounds divine.”

Lando lets himself be pushed by the security guard, who is decidedly less gentle than the one guiding you. Before leaving, however, Lando turns to the crowd and calls out, “You might want to send your coats to the cleaners. Or burn them.” He’s shoved by the security guard. “You folks have a good night!”

By the time the two of you are outside, escorted by security, you and Lando are still bickering. “You always do this, you have to make a scene out of nothing—”

“I’m making a scene? Maybe I should tell Tara about how it was my name you were saying when you—”

The doors to the auction building close, and your faux screaming match ceases. Lando stares at you. You stare a him. Your lips break into a smile, before a barely-stifled laugh sparks out of you and Lando follows suit.

“I don’t think I knew heists could be this fun,” you say between giggles. The two of you start walking towards the car, ready for when Carlos and Max arrive with the painting in tow.

“Yeah,” Lando grins. “Me neither.”

The two of you fall into easy step, side by side. The knot you made for Lando’s tie is starting to come loose and your black dress is starting to itch. When his hand accidentally brushes with yours, you find it doesn’t bother you all that much.

Lando is unlocking the car when realization rolls down your back like a cold bucket of ice.

“I was supposed to be lookout,” you say blankly, stiffly.

Shit.

“Do you have any idea how fucking unprofessional this was?” Max barks at you. You feel glued to your spot, something like a knot forming in your throat. Your cheeks feel hot, your hands clammy. Usually—usually, you’re never at the receiving end of Max’s anger-induced reprimands. You don’t mess up. Not like this, anyway. “We could’ve been arrested. Carlos nearly was arrested. Cops could have my fucking face in their radar now. Do you even understand what that means?” His jaw twitches, a muscle tensing as he glares at you. You stare at the floor. “We had a plan. You were supposed to be lookout. You nearly fucked up this entire operation.”

Your throat feels dry, your stomach in knots. You lick your lips, your voice weak when you try to apologize. “I’m—”

“It wasn’t her fault,” Lando protests.

Max’s eyes narrow in his direction, with Lando sitting over one of the tables of the warehouse. His jaw looks like it’s one misdirected comment from splintering in half. “She should’ve known better,” he growls.

Lando hops off the table, tie and suit jacket long discarded. He scoffs, doing a quick once-over of Max. Seizing him up. It’s not a good idea. “Yeah, maybe, but you don’t have to be a dickhead about it.”

“Lando.”

“What?” he asks, turning to you with disbelief written all over his face—as if to say, are you really gonna let him speak to you like this? “He’s being a prick.” Lando steps closer to Max, putting some distance between the two of you. He works his jaw with his knuckles, green eyes narrowed. “If your plan didn’t work out like you wanted, then maybe the problem isn’t her—maybe the problem is you.”

Max’s cold, calculating gaze sweeps over Lando, before a scoff escapes him. He shakes his head, as if discarding a thought. “You’re out.”

Lando huffs. “Fine by me, prick.”

“Not you.” Max’s gaze flicks to you.

The warehouse falls silent. You watch as Alex freezes on his chair, confusion and disbelief clear in his face.

Understanding feels remarkably like trying to digest a pile of stones. Hard to swallow. Heavy in your gut. You don’t trust your voice, yet you hear yourself asking— “Are you serious?”

Max looks unfazed. “You’ve proven you’re unreliable. I don’t work with unreliable people.” His voice is nothing but cold when he repeats, “You’re out.”

“Maybe this isn’t a decision we should—” Alex tries.

“But it wasn’t her fault,” Lando repeats loudly, frustration bleeding into his words.

“You will establish a line of contact with the buyer we had agreed on. I will wire you your part of the money,” Max continues, as if he hasn’t just dropped a bomb on you. You feel like you’re going to throw up—worse, you think you’re going to cry. “But after that, I don’t want to see you around here anymore.”

You clench your fists at your side, trying to keep your hands from trembling. Is this all it takes? One mistake? It’s unfair, you think. It’s so fucking unfair. But Max has never particularly cared for fair—only for results. And today, you might’ve cost him the one thing he values above money: his identity. All it takes is one cop to make the connection, to linger on Max’s presence a moment too long, and this all unravels. He already said Charles had been taken in, that Carlos nearly got arrested. There’s too much heat at the moment to afford any loose ends.

Still.

You laugh. It’s a bitter, bitter thing. It coils inside your chest, around your ribcage. You feel pinpricks behind your eyes, but you’ll be damned if you even shed a single tear in his presence. “You know what? Fuck you, Max.”

You feel tremors in your bones—loss, maybe. Frustration. Embarrassment. Anger.

In the end, you walk out of the warehouse with your head held high, and Lando following just a few steps back.

“Fuck you!”

The metal door slams loudly behind you.

The drive home is quiet. Lando buckled his seatbelt silently, jaw tense and knuckles tight around the steering wheel. You didn’t speak, so neither did he.

Droplets of rain fall against the windshield, the clouds bleeding into different shades of indigo. Finally, the car skids to a halt. The drop-off point. A place that is neither too close nor too far away from your apartment—not close enough to give away any personal information, but not too far that you’ll have to spend a long time walking home.

You stare at the dashboard, at the smeared traffic lights that bleed into one another through the window.

This is it. It’s over.

“I’m sorry,” Lando says quietly, motionlessly.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“No, it was. Fuck,” Lando squeezes his eyes, tugging too harshly at his hair. The silence lifts, paving the way for a frantic sort of planning. “I’ll explain it to him. I’ll make him listen—”

That almost draws a laugh out of you. “You can’t make Max do anything. Nobody can.” Your face crumples like paper, frustration tearing you apart at the seams. You bite the inside of your cheek. Hard. “How could I make such a stupid, stupid mistake? I know better than that.”

“Stop it,” Lando says harshly, sharply, “you didn’t make a mistake—you were great. If anything, this whole plan was doomed the moment he decided to make me replace Charles.”

You huff a laugh. Lando leans his head against the headrest, pursing his lips, as if considering something. Silence settles once again. You can hear the rain pattering against the roof of the car. Drip. Drip. Drip.

“I should tell you,” Lando starts. “It was an accident, that day I went to the flower shop.” He turns to you, shoulders dropping a little. “I didn’t know you worked there.”

A scoff scratches against your throat. “Yeah, right.” There’s no real malice behind your words, not anymore. Just exhaustion. You feel worn to the bone. Exposed. “You were just getting flowers, and it just so happened to be the flower shop I work at?”

“I didn’t know,” he insists, stammering, “It’s—It’s near my place.” He runs a hand through his curls again, as if that’ll help him convey his thoughts more clearly. “Running into you was an unlucky coincidence and I was—I was being a dick.”

Your brow twitches. “Are you… apologizing to me right now?”

“You’re sure as hell not making it easy.”

You chuckle. “Right.” You slump your head against the car seat. Surprisingly enough, you find you believe him. Maybe it should bother you more, that he knows where you work. Until a few days ago, it did. You’re not quite sure why it doesn’t anymore. At least now you know he didn’t do it to get under your skin.

Exhaustion makes you honest. “Did she like the flowers, at least? Your girlfriend?”

Lando squints, then laughs—a weak sound, tired—as he shakes his head. “I, no. No, the flowers were for my sister. She, uh…” he drums the pads of his fingers against the steering wheel, “She likes roses, and she’d just had a baby.”

“So, you’re an uncle now,” you note.

He shrugs. “Guess so.”

“Congrats.”

“Thanks.”

“And, for the record, you were. Being a dick.” You exhale, tilting your head towards him. He meets your gaze evenly. “But I was also an ass to you. Multiple times. So… yeah.”

The corner of his lips curve up into a smile. “Was that an apology?”

“Take it or leave it, hotwheels.”

“I’ll take it.”

You click your tongue. “Since we’re speaking now, I should probably warn you to steer clear of the flower shop.”

“Yeah, I got it.”

“Yeah, ‘cause of that, but also because I lied to Ollie and told him you were a piece of shit ex of mine.”

“Woah,” Lando straightens off his seat, “you told your boyfriend I was your ex?”

You roll your eyes, and the weight of the day feels a little lighter on your shoulders. “Ollie’s not my boyfriend, he’s my coworker. And he had a few questions after you left—figured it was a good lie in case you ever tried to come back again.”

Lando scoffs. “Please. Like the kid could take me. He waters plants for a living.”

You squint. “I mean—he is taller than you.” You shrug. “You’d be surprised.”

You can feel Lando’s eyes on you. Lingering. Tracing your features. “Why’d you work there?” he asks, softer this time. “You clearly don’t need the money.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You mean other than you’ve been pulling jobs with Max for a while?” He gestures at your hand. “I’m pretty sure that little bracelet of yours is worth more than you’d make in a year.” You glance down at it. It’s a small, barely noticeable silver chain. You bought it with the money from your first heist under Max. “Selling flowers doesn’t exactly sound like a lucrative business.”

You think about it for a moment. “I worked there when I was younger. The owner—she’s too old to take care of it now. It almost feels like it’s my own place in the world, you know?” You sigh, rolling your eyes at yourself. “I don’t know, maybe I just need to be a normal human being for a couple of hours a day.” As soon as the words leave your mouth, they’re tinted with a sarcastic scoff. “Like there’s anything normal about me,” you mutter, suddenly annoyed.

You rob museums and millionaire-funded auctions. You spend hours at your day job studying paintings you’re planning to steal and sell. Your best friend is a lockpick and a pickpocket who has stolen your wallet multiple times for fun. You use your art degree and your contacts to fence stolen paintings for money.

“Who cares about normal?” Lando says, as if it’s the most natural response in the world. “Normal’s boring.” He looks at you with an expression you can’t quite place.

Lando’s eyes are pretty, you realize with startling shock. Not quite green, but not hazel either. There are splashes of blue there—daubs of brown in a sea of green. You can feel yourself lingering—maybe he can feel it too.

“I should go,” you say, reaching for the handle of the door. It’s still raining outside. The cold air rushes inside the car like a rippling wave.

“I don’t have one, by the way,” Lando says suddenly, abruptly. He grimaces, his nonchalant act faltering. “A girlfriend, I mean. I don’t have a girlfriend.”

You can see from the way his face twists up that he regrets ever speaking. You shake your head, and to your own surprise, you find yourself smiling.

“See you around, Lando.”

Weeks pass by slowly. Mornings stretch into dull afternoons, days feeling grayer and grayer as winter starts to roll in. You try to make a routine for yourself, something to keep you from focusing on that throbbing emptiness you feel in your chest whenever you stop.

So, you don’t stop. You arrive at the shop hours earlier and leave at long after sundown. You trim bonsais and water plants and throw away flowers that have long since dried. You wipe the windows. You scrub down the counter. At some point, you find yourself staring at a pair of scissors and wonder whether you should cut your hair.

You start bringing your art textbooks back to work. There’s no heist to prepare, no painting to study—but you let your mind wander, just occasionally, as you study the different artworks. Kahlo, Bracquemond, Malharro, Lira. If Ollie notices any changes with you, he’s smart enough not to mention it.

It’s not like you need the money—though it’s always a pleasant addition. You’ve saved enough so that if you don’t live extravagantly, you could manage. But you miss the thrill, the rush of adrenaline it gives you.

The only time you let yourself linger is at night—when you stare at your phone for a moment too long, unsure whether you’re waiting for a call from Max or a text from Lando.

Neither ever comes.

You received a text from Alex, a few days after your unceremonious severing of ties—a text he undoubtedly sent behind Max’s back. It was an apology—something short, sweet, and enough for you to appreciate it.

The one person you’ve been talking to consistently is Charles. He must’ve been the last to get the news—and a part of you can’t help but wonder how he reacted. He’s more level headed than most of you, but still.

“I could quit,” he told you one afternoon, over the phone. You could imagine the concentrated pinch of his brows, the displeased turn of his lips. “We used to manage just fine before, when it was just us.”

“I’m not asking you to leave.”

“I know. That’s why I’m offering.”

You sighed, going quiet for a moment. “It’s fine, Charlie. I mean it.” A beat. “Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”

Charles had just grumbled something in French, and that was that. You saw the news a few days after that—another auction house, a painting robbed from right under their noses. What surprised you was that the painting they stole—a Camille Pissarro—wasn’t even the most valuable work of his that had been on display that night. It almost managed to cheer you up a little. Their loss.

“Are you sure you don’t need me to close? I can stay a little longer,” Ollie says, untying his apron and hanging it behind the counter.

“I’m sure, Ollie,” you say, shaking your head. “Go home. It’s getting late.”

Ollie hums, bidding you a quick goodbye before exiting the shop to go get his bike. He’s a good kid, you think. You’re still not quite sure what you’ll do once he graduates.

The bell rings, and you find yourself fighting off a smile as you hang your apron beside his. “Did you forget something?” you call out.

You hear Ollie’s footsteps draw closer to the counter. Slow, measured. Then—

“Actually, I was hoping to get a suggestion.” You turn your head around so quickly you nearly give yourself whiplash. And there he is—decidedly not Ollie—standing in the middle of your shop like he belongs there. Lando’s hair looks longer, tousled, curls unruly as ever. He still wears that black hoodie of his, paired up with black jeans and sneakers. He’s tilting his head at you, waiting.

“We’re closed,” you say blankly. And, really—it’s jarring, seeing him here after expecting not to see him again unless he was showing up on the news.

“I figured,” he says. His fingers drum against the counter, green eyes with a mischievous glint. “Then again, I’m not really here for the flowers.”

Your mouth feels dry. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see you,” he says honestly, earnestly. It makes something jump inside your chest. Something curls inside your gut—a feeling distinctly opposite to the bottomless pit that’s been churning in your stomach for over a month.

“Did you, now?”

“You haven’t exactly made it easy,” Lando says, curious eyes scanning the place. Still, you can see the growing grin in his lips. “You did warn me off visiting this place again.” He shrugs. “S’not like I had your number.”

You’re not sure why that makes your lips quirk up, gaze tinged with amusement. “Not like it would’ve been that hard to get it.”

He hums, sidestepping the counter as he strides closer to you—close enough that you can see that mischievous glint dancing in his green eyes. Mischievous, but paired with something… softer. “You just love arguing with me, don’t you?” Lando asks, head tilted.

“Not any more than you do,” you respond.

Lando leans closer, eyes flickering down to your lips. You can feel his breath fanning against your cheeks. His hand brushes against your waist—slowly, tentatively.

“You know, it’s been a shit show without you,” he says quietly. Like a secret only you’re privy to. “Not that he would admit it. I’m pretty sure he got scammed with this last buyer—”

You lick your lips, reaching up for the strings of his hoodie. “I don’t wanna talk about Max,” you murmur. It’s not out of resentment, either—but looking at Lando under the warm light, cheeks rosy and lips pink, Max might just be the last thing on your mind.

Neither of you are sure who makes the first move—it’ll be something to argue about later. There’s nothing gentle or soft about the way Lando kisses. It’s teeth on teeth, tongue on tongue—a competition on who can be the first to draw blood. Still, you can feel him smiling against your lips, his hands splayed around your waist as your arms reach up around his neck. His teeth pull against your bottom lip. Your fingers pull against his hair. You’re the first to draw a sound out of him, making you grin.

When you pull apart, both your lips are glossy and rosier than they were before. He looks breathless. You imagine you do too.

“You can be really infuriating, you know?” Lando asks.

“Have you looked in the mirror recently?”

He scoffs a laugh. “You just can never let me win, can you?”

“Definitely not.”

Before you can help yourself, you’re bringing him closer to you again, pressing your lips against his. Your tongue darts against his bottom lip, making him hum.

He pulls away first, eyes dazed. He looks down at your lips again then back up at you, as if restraining himself. “Let me take you out,” he says abruptly, voice a little wrecked at the end, “like on a proper date.”

You smile as you press your nose against his neck, lips trailing over the skin. He shudders, and it only eggs you on.

“Yeah?” you tease, voice breathy and quiet. Lando groans, moving to capture your lips with his again. “Where will you take me, hotwheels?” you ask between kisses.

He grins, green eyes alight. “Anywhere you want, sunshine.”

By the time Lando leaves, night has fallen outside, and closing time has long since passed. At last, it’s just you in the flower shop, lights turned off and windows locked.

You’re about to lock up and leave for the night, when you notice a small package you hadn’t seen before tucked into a corner, just beside the door. You kneel down, curious. It’s wrapped in a brownish paper, paired with a Fragile! Handle with Care sticker. You furrow your brows. There’s no way this is Ollie’s.

You wonder whether you should call him. Ask if he forgot a package. The thought dies as quickly as it appears. Curiosity gets the best of you, and you find yourself tearing at the brown paper.

The first thing you see is strokes of green. Perfected brushes of red and blue. You don’t believe your eyes. The gentle unwrapping becomes more desperate, urgent. Once it’s completely off, it’s unmistakable.

Anémones by Claude Monet. Inside your shop. In your hands. You’ve gone insane. There’s simply no other explanation for it.

You don’t know how long you sit there, on your knees, staring at the wooden frame in your hands. You don’t blink—afraid that the moment you do, it’ll vanish like you never had it in the first place.

You move your hand, only to feel something odd behind the frame. You scramble to turn it around, spotting a small, tiny slip of paper tucked behind.

You unfold it. There’s a phone number scribbled on it, followed by: No more excuses.

Then, on the other side: I think I’m starting to get why you liked this one so much.

You blink. Did Lando—

Fuck, he did. How did he get it? When did he get it? Your fingers trace the painting gently, as if it’ll turn to dust with the minimal pressure. Your body slumps forward slightly, disbelieving. This is yours now.

You drive home following every traffic law to ever exist. You signal as you turn, body taut like wire, unconsciously acting as if there’s already police eyeing you suspiciously. It’s only once you’re inside your apartment that you allow your shoulders to drop and gently place the painting on your rug.

A part of you wants to hide it under your bed. What if someone finds out? But even looking at it now, you know you could never do that.

You try to bite down a smile, but it’s futile. Maybe you could ask Lando for ideas on where to hang it. The thought feels remarkably like sunlight warming your chest.

You’re floating a bit, mind drifting anywhere other than your apartment. You still can’t quite believe it. All those thefts, all those fenced paintings and sculptures—it never occurred to you that you could keep one as your own. Lando did that.

When you reach for your phone to text him, you find that there’s another message already waiting for you.

It’s not from Lando. It’s from an encrypted number—one you’re all-too familiar with.

There’s a job that you could be useful for.

Are you in?

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