Thanks to Norris

part 71- singapur

Scene: Singapore – Wednesday Evening

Singapore was glowing.

Every surface reflected the lights of the city — glass towers, riverwalks, neon signs cutting through the dense, humid dusk. You had arrived earlier that day, jet-lagged but wide awake, pulled into the rhythm of the city almost instantly.

Charles had texted:
"Come walk. Arthur's already threatening to shop without supervision."

You smiled when you saw it and met them near Marina Bay, sunglasses on, hair tied up, still wearing the ghost of Zandvoort in your bones. But here? It was different. Easier. You could breathe.

Charles was relaxed, hoodie tied around his waist, arms crossed as he watched his younger brother dart from store to store like he was on a mission. Arthur had already bought two shirts he didn't need and a fake Rolex "for the drama."

He looped his arm through yours at one point, grinning up at you like the chaotic little brother he'd become. "You need something too," he insisted, dragging you toward a small street market.

"I don't need anything," you laughed, letting him pull you along anyway. "I'm trying to stay low-key."

Charles raised an eyebrow. "Impossible. You're currently the most talked-about person in F1 media."

You groaned, tugging your sunglasses higher. "Don't start."

"Just saying," he said innocently. "That clip of you and Lando has been replayed more than any highlight from the race."

Arthur smirked. "I thought you hated each other. Now you flirt like Netflix gave you a script."

You elbowed him lightly. "We do hate each other. Just... in a complicated, weirdly PR-approved way."

"Sure," Arthur said, winking. "Just like I 'hate' that girl from Monaco I text every night."

You all burst out laughing — easy, familiar. The kind of laughter that lets you forget for a second that the world's watching.

You turned a corner near the edge of the market, stepping into an open square where music played and fairy lights strung between buildings sparkled in the warm air.

And that's when you saw him.

Lando.

Across the square. Leaning against the railing near the water. His hair still messy from the flight, sunglasses hanging from the collar of his shirt, talking to someone from his team — but casually, like he had all the time in the world.

He didn't see you right away. But Charles did.

He glanced at you, then at Lando, then back at you again with a look that said here we go.

Arthur let out a dramatic sigh. "Is it too late to duck behind a souvenir stand?"

You didn't move. You didn't hide. But something in you tightened — the memory of Zandvoort flashing sharp in your mind: the teasing, the sarcasm, the near-confession, the eyes that never quite said enough.

Lando's gaze drifted your way.

And locked on you.

He paused midsentence.

No smirk this time. Just a stare. Curious. Direct. Too honest.

Then, slowly, like it meant nothing and everything at once, he lifted his fingers in a small wave — subtle, almost teasing, just for you.

You raised an eyebrow. Gave him a barely-there nod.

Charles leaned over, voice low. "Do we keep walking?"