Misscommunication||LANDO NORRIS

3

Lando Norris

We stand in the elevator, the doors sliding shut with that familiar ding—trapping us in this cramped, painfully silent box. The music plays softly, some generic club beat, trying to mask the tension but only making the silence louder in my head. I'm on one side, Lizzie on the other, and neither of us wants to be here. But neither wants to look away either.

I reach up to fix my hair, not just because it needs it, but because I need something to do. The reflection in the elevator door catches her eyes flickering toward me. Of course she's looking. And of course, the second our eyes meet, she snaps her head away like she wasn't checking me out. That classic "I wasn't looking at you" move. I chuckle softly — it's dumb, and a little cute, if I'm being honest.

I glance down at myself — black suit, undone collar, trying to act all chill — but inside I'm a mess. We've been at each other's throats since that night when everything broke, and now here we are, forced into a small space with nowhere to hide. The same girl I grew up with, the same one I competed with in karts and school and every fight we ever had, is standing less than a meter away. And honestly? It's confusing as hell. Part of me wants to ask if she's okay, if she remembers when we used to share holidays and laugh over stupid things. But another part knows better — this isn't the time for feelings. Not here, not now. Instead, I keep my eyes on the floor, on the fading reflection of a friendship turned war zone. The music keeps playing, the silence stretching, and I wonder how long this ride will last before someone says something that makes everything worse.

Because with us, it always does.-

Lizzie starts fidgeting with her dress, pulling it down like the thing betrayed her and shrank overnight and

Wait, I've seen that dress somewhere before-

5 years ago

It was a Friday night, and the local club, The Boiler Room, was buzzing like a swarm of angry bees—or at least that's how my nerves felt. Everyone was there for the weekend kick-off, but me? I was stuck in the corner looking like a lost puppy. Max bailed on me last minute, so I was flying solo, nursing my awkwardness and wondering if this was a sign to just dip home. I hadn't even worked up the courage to hit the bar yet, despite finally being 18 and technically legal to do all the reckless stuff.

Then, like some movie moment, she walked in—Lizzie Jones. Surrounded by her crew, laughing like she owned the place. I'd seen her in maths class yesterday, but somehow tonight she looked different—more... dangerous? Or maybe just more Lizzie than usual.

Our eyes locked across the room. She pulled out her fake ID and threw me a wink. Wait, what? She actually winked at me? No way. I instantly looked away, convinced she must've been mid-blink or hallucinating. I mean, Lizzie Jones? She's not that Lizzie Jones. We know each other—sort of—but not like that.

I looked back to where she'd been standing, but she was gone. Suddenly, a tap on my shoulder made me jump.

"Always a pleasure to see you around, Norris."

I turned and there she was. Flushed, probably because the club was basically a sauna, hair braided in those two signature plaits, and rocking a red sparkly mini dress that highlighted every curve like a neon sign screaming look at me. She looked stunning—and I'm not great at hiding that I noticed.

Trying really hard not to stare at her chest, I awkwardly fidgeted with my hands like a teenage idiot.

"You're way too sober for tonight. Come with me—let's grab a drink."

She was practically singing, waving her hands like she was the queen of the club or something. I didn't move.

"Please, Lando," she pleaded, batting those long lashes. There was something about the way she said my name—