STYLE; lando norris

39 | your idiot

➶ 𝐒𝐓𝐘𝐋𝐄 °•⁀➷ ﹏﹏ [调情] ꒦꒷

▍〔 🧺. 〕࿐ ໋₊ ˖ ▍

▅▅▅▅▅▅ 039. ◢◤◢◤◢

The next morning Blake woke up with a pounding headache, everything from last night was a blur.

The pounding in Blake's skull was relentless, each throb a brutal reminder of the night, or two nights, before. Her breath hitched as she stirred, the dim morning light filtering through unfamiliar curtains. Groaning softly, she pressed her fingers to her temples and opened her eyes.

The room wasn't hers.

Blake sat up taking in her surroundings, the change in orientation made her head throb painfully making Blake's eyes squint.

She blinked against the haze clouding her mind, taking in the scattered clothes on the floor. The luggage near the wardrobe wasn't hers either—it was messily unzipped, a familiar jacket draped haphazardly over the arm of a chair. Her stomach dropped as recognition hit her.

Lando.

The name shot through her like a jolt, followed by a cascade of fragmented memories—the bar, the argument on the street, and his voice cutting through the chaos: I love you.

"Oh my God," Blake whispered, her voice hoarse and cracking as she turned, dread pooling in her chest.

Her eyes landed on the body next to her, half-buried under the duvet. Lando lay on his stomach, his head turned toward her. His curls were a tousled mess, his face relaxed in sleep, one bare shoulder peeking out from the blankets.

"Fuck me," she muttered under her breath, the sharp pang of her headache intensifying as the events of the night replayed more vividly. She glanced down at herself—her dress was still on, wrinkled but otherwise intact. Relief mingled with panic as she clutched the duvet to her chest.

Her gaze darted to the door, her mind racing. If she moved quickly, she could grab her heels, find her phone, and slip out before he woke up—

But then Lando stirred.