Misscommunication||LANDO NORRIS

6

Lizzie Jones

I wake up to what can only be described as a nuclear-level headache. Like someone's playing a drum solo inside my skull with metal straws. Sexy. I groan dramatically, flopping one arm over the side of the bed in the most pathetic way possible, desperately trying to feel around for painkillers. Instead, I swipe about fifteen random objects onto the floor—an empty water bottle, a phone (not mine??), and something that suspiciously feels like a sock.

God, where the hell am I?

"Hey, you're up."

I freeze.

That voice? That distinctly Monegasque, way-too-put-together-for-this-hour voice?

Charles.

I whip my head toward the sound—instant regret, pain shooting through my temples like karma's just clocked in—and there he is, emerging from the bathroom like some L'Oréal commercial. Baggy jeans hanging perfectly off his hips, crisp white shirt barely buttoned, towel in hand, ruffling through damp curls like he's in a goddamn boyband.

And that's when it hits me: this is not my hotel room.

Oh. Oh no.

Panic mode activated. I yank the duvet up to my chin like it's going to protect my dignity or at least hide me from the consequences of whatever the hell happened last night. I lift the sheets slowly, praying I'm not fully naked. I'm in underwear—cute, thank god—and... a very large shirt. Which is absolutely Charles' shirt.

I whip my gaze back to him, face screaming: EXPLAIN. NOW.

"Hey hey, you're okay, Lizzie. Chill," he says, holding up his hands like he's talking down a feral cat. Which, fair. I probably look insane right now—makeup smeared, hair doing acrobatics, emotionally unstable aura at full blast.

"I—uh, mind telling me how I ended up here?" I ask, rubbing my forehead like that'll magically make the hangover disappear. "Not to sound mean, I swear, I'm just... really confused and also pretty sure my soul is trying to escape my body via my eyeballs."

Charles walks over and sits on the edge of the bed, like he's about to tell me I committed a minor felony.

"You were crying outside," he says softly, watching my reaction. "Like, really crying. I tried to ask what happened but you just kept shaking your head and crying harder. I couldn't just leave you there, Liz."

I keep my face still. Stone cold. Poker face activated. But inside I'm spiraling because I know why I was crying. His name starts with L and ends in -ando and he has stupid curly hair and even stupider brown eyes and a talent for making me feel everything I don't want to feel.

"I couldn't find your room key," Charles continues, "so I brought you back here. Let you change under the covers, don't worry—I was a total gentleman." He shrugs. "I just wanted to make sure you were safe. You didn't seem okay."

My chest tightens. I don't know what I did to deserve this level of kindness from someone I lowkey emotionally torture on the daily. Without thinking, I get up and cross the room, throwing my arms around Charles' neck like he's my human emotional support animal.

"Thank you," I whisper, cheek resting against his shoulder, trying to ignore how stupidly good he smells. Like sandalwood and fresh laundry and safety. "Thank you for being the best friend in the world."

His hands settle on my back, gently pulling me into the hug, and for a second I let myself exist in this bubble. No noise, no Lando, no racing, no drama. Just me and Charles. My best friend.