Misscommunication||LANDO NORRIS

10

Lizzie Jones

I wake up to the weight of an arm wrapped around my waist, a warm head nestled right against my neck like some annoying koala that's decided I'm their new favorite tree. I turn my head slowly, careful not to disturb the fragile bubble of this early morning moment, and stretch out my arms with a long, dramatic yawn that probably sounds like I'm auditioning for a zombie movie.

"Morning, Liz," Charles croaks in his morning voice—which is somehow both adorable and tragic. I wince, immediately remembering last night. All of it. The laughter, the closeness, the kiss. The giant, unfixable mistake.

"Charles, I have to go. Gym session. Like, ASAP," I whine, trying to wiggle free from his death grip without crushing him in the process. I mean, I was so caught up in the moment with Charles that I actually agreed to date him. Me. Lizzie Jones. What even is my life?

"If I'm late, I'm literally gonna get murdered. And you? You have to be there too. Shower, then meet me downstairs in half an hour," I add, grabbing my chance while he's mid-stretch and jumping off the bed like I'm trying out for a sprint team. No time for goodbyes or awkward eye contact—I grab my stuff and race out the door, not even bothering to wave.

I speedwalk to the elevator like it's a race against time, heart still pounding with last night's adrenaline mixed with this morning's regret. The elevator dings open, and I frantically search my bag for my keycard, fumbling with the zipper like it's a Rubik's cube. I barely hear the door next to me click open. Lando steps out, eyes locking onto mine. For once, they're soft, almost gentle, and it throws me off balance.

"Jones," he says, nodding at me like we're suddenly coworkers instead of childhood history.

I nod back, barely daring to meet his gaze, training my eyes on my shoes as our shoulders brush in the narrow hallway. My heart hammers so loud I swear it's a separate drummer. I bring my hand up to rub my arm, like maybe I can erase the contact, or at least calm the storm inside me.

Jones. What does he mean by that? Since when are we on a last-name basis? I've known this guy since we were four years old. Seen him in every possible Lando mood imaginable—annoying, cocky, charming, angry... and maybe, just maybe, vulnerable. Didn't he just tell me last night that he knows me better than I know myself? So why does it feel like we're strangers?

I unlock my door, shut it behind me, and take a deep breath.

Okay, Lizzie. Brace yourself.

This is gonna be a long fucking day.

———————————————————————————

Charles picks me up in his red Ferrari — because obviously, it's gotta be flashy enough to match his whole "F1 prince" vibe. I hop in like I'm in some music video, but in reality, I'm low-key trying to pretend my heart isn't doing that annoying "thump-thump" like I just chugged an espresso. We drive to the track, and I'm thinking, Okay, let's not trip over my own feet today, please.

The second we step out of the car, BAM — paparazzi everywhere. It's like we just threw a rock in a hornet's nest but the hornets are photographers with lenses instead of stingers. Cameras flashing nonstop, so bright I half expect them to start playing "Eye of the Tiger" like some dramatic montage. Charles, being all chill and extra at the same time, casually throws his arm around my shoulder — classic move, right? Then, he leans in and kisses my forehead like I'm some kind of royalty or a puppy he rescued. Honestly, I'm just trying to keep my cool and not look like I'm about to melt into a puddle of awkwardness.