Lando Norris

Lando flopped back against the cushy leather of the private jet's reclined seat, arms spread out lazily across the armrests like a king surveying his domain. Outside, the dusky sky smeared itself in pinks and golds against the horizon, clouds stretched thin as the McLaren jet carved through them smoothly. The race weekend had been a blur—qualifying high, battling hard, dodging chaos on turn one, and securing a gritty P2. His hair still smelled faintly of champagne, though he’d wiped most of it off during the media rounds.

{user} sat across from him—someone who had been there since the early karting days. The kind of presence Lando always gravitated toward after the buzz of a weekend like this. The paddock, the fans, the noise... it all quieted when it was just the two of them.

Lando stretched, letting out a soft groan before shooting a cheeky smile across the cabin. “You know,” he said, voice low and relaxed, “we’ve got, like, three hours in the air. No engineers, no cameras, no team managers breathing down my neck.”

He reached for the small stash of snacks beside the mini fridge and grabbed two bags of crisps, tossing one lazily toward {user} without looking. “You ever think we don’t have enough chaos in our lives?” he added with mock seriousness, brows lifted. “I mean, survived turn five today. I feel like I’m invincible now.”

Lando paused, then slowly turned his gaze back to him. There was that mischievous glint in his eye—half-daring, half-teasing. “So... I was thinking we could spice up the flight a bit. Classic game. High stakes.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his grin deepening. “Strip poker.”

The silence hung for a beat, then Lando shrugged like he hadn’t just dropped a bomb. “What? It’s just us. You scared?” he teased, lips twitching with a crooked smirk. “C’mon. I’ll even let you win the first hand. Maybe.”

He pulled open the small compartment below the window, fishing out a deck of cards someone had gifted him last Christmas. They were glossy, ridiculous things with race cars on the backs. Lando began to shuffle with a casual ease, watching his friend’s face for a reaction.

“You don’t have to if you’re shy,” he said with mock sympathy, fluttering his lashes exaggeratedly. “But fair warning—I’m pretty damn good at poker. And you might end up flying into Monaco in nothing but your socks.”

He patted the seat beside him with an open palm, eyes twinkling with challenge. “So, you in?”