Misscommunication||LANDO NORRIS

4

Lizzie Jones

This club is unnecessarily massive. Like, genuinely, why are there three floors? Are we clubbing or trying to get our daily step count in? I glance at Charles, who's standing next to me with the same expression I've got—mouth half-open like we just walked into Disneyland but for degenerates. I'm half-expecting a bouncer to pop out and offer us a map and a fast pass.

The bass is so loud it's practically rearranging my internal organs. I lean up, practically mouth-kissing Charles's ear just to speak.

"Let's check out the bar," I shout, because apparently yelling into people's ears is normal here. He nods, wide-eyed like a lost puppy on its first night out of Monaco.

We snake our way through the crowd like it's Coachella Day 3 and everyone's forgotten how to use deodorant. There's people jumping, dancing, and one guy who's 100% just trying to levitate. Eventually we make it to the bar, which is obviously packed with girls in dresses barely holding on and guys pretending they know how to order anything more complicated than a vodka Red Bull.

Charles—sneaky bitch—slams his card down before I can even blink. The bartender scribbles something down like he's signing a contract with Satan.

"It's on me tonight. Lizzie, you dreamed it and you did it," he says, all proud big brother energy and I swear my heart does a little gymnastics routine.

"Charles, you literally did better than me—let me get the first round at least." I reach for my bag but he gives me the hand. You know the hand. The universal "don't argue with me" hand. Ugh.

"Lizzie, you got a podium on your first ever F1 race. Just let me do this for you."

Okay, fine. Pulling the podium card. I surrender, arms up, like I'm being mugged by kindness.

We each take down three shots like it's a competitive sport (which honestly it should be), and then grab two ridiculous cocktails that look like they came from a unicorn's birthday party. By the time we make it back to VIP, I'm already vibing.

We slide onto this massive L-shaped sofa like royalty. I'm between Carlos and Daniel, who are both sipping fruity cocktails that do not match their alpha-male Instagram personas. I glance across the table at Charles, who's pretending to listen to Max, but he's 100% just staring at me. Awkwardly cute. Maybe.

'You okay?' I mouth across the table like I'm trying to pass notes in class.

He gives a small nod and a little smile. Heart: slightly combusting.

Carlos turns to me and holds out a hand. "Hey, well done on P3 today, you were amazing."

I giggle—ugh, gross—and shake his hand, beaming like I just got asked to prom by my high school crush.

Then Daniel, literal sunshine man, pats my back like a proud uncle. "I mean, no one's ever gotten P3 on their debut race. Ferrari are lucky to have you."

"You guys are like my role models," I say, leaning back with a laugh. "Racing Ricciardo and Speedy Sainz." God, I forgot how me and Lando made up those nicknames back in the day. During maths. Always maths. He'd scribble them in the margins of his notebook and I'd roll my eyes, secretly loving every second. Of course, he'd probably ignore me if I brought that up now—or worse, get weird and start a fight. We were kinda cute, huh? In a childhood-rivals-who-sort-of-secretly-liked-each-other way. Ew. Moving on.

"Hey, Lando's on the DJ decks if you wanna join," Charles says from behind me, casual like he didn't just drop a social bomb.

And just like that, the vibe dies a little. Love that. My stomach tightens. My brother Owen taught him how to DJ, back on that France camping trip where everything was chaos and drum and bass ruled our lives. Owen mostly ignored me—standard—but Lando? He tried. He really, really tried.

"Or you can come dance with me," Charles adds with a goofy shimmy that makes me laugh. Of course I choose Charles. No way in hell am I going near the emotional trauma booth that is Lando Norris on decks.

Carlos and Daniel perk up. "Can we join?"

"No. Absolutely not." I deadpan. They blink. "Guys, that was sarcasm!" I yell, arms flailing, and they all burst out laughing like I'm the funniest person alive.

"Before I join this dance circle," I smirk, standing, "I need at least three more drinks. I am not drunk enough to witness Charles Leclerc doing the Macarena."

I wander back over to the bar like it's a second home at this point, climb onto one of the stools like I own it, and order three shots like the reckless legend I am.

And then I see him.

Lando. DJ booth. A girl draped over him like a koala. 

One hour. That's how long we've been here. And this man has already collected a groupie. I watch him—eyes scanning the crowd like he's looking for someone. Then they land on me. Of course they do. And weirdly, neither of us looks away.

There's something in his expression—like he's not sure if he wants to yell at me or tell me I've got something on my face. It's not hate. It's not even lust. It's just... confusion. And maybe something else. Something older. Sadder.

This is harder than I thought. Being in F1 together. All the memories I tried so hard to bury are showing up uninvited.

When we were kids, we used to dream of this—being in F1 together. Racing side-by-side. Maybe even the same team. We used to plan out podium celebrations like losers. And now? Now he's just some guy with a sloth girl hanging off him and I'm pretending I don't care.

"It's funny how things turned out," I mutter into my empty shot glass.

The tequila hits. Suddenly I am way, way drunk. The floor is moving like it's trying to dance with me. I stumble back toward the group, using dancers as support beams. Charles is mid-dance, somehow managing to look adorable and atrocious at the same time.

He drapes his arm around me and leans in close. "You look beautiful tonight."

Okay. Pause. Did he just say that? My head spins. Heat? Alcohol? Compliment? Unclear. All of the above?

"I'm gonna go get some air," I say, patting his shoulder.

"Ow."

"Shut up, Charles. You wimp."

"You want me to come?"

"Nah, you stay. Keep shaking what your mama gave you, Dancing Queen." I grin, and he laughs, twirling away.

I push through the doors into the fresh air, cool breeze kissing my skin—and slam straight into someone's chest.

I look up.

Of course. Of-fucking-course.

"Wow," I mutter, laughing. "The universe really said no breaks for Lizzie tonight, huh?"

And there he is.

Lando.

VOTE AND COMMENT PLS
I keep changing this plot in my head😭