Lando, Behave

Chapter One: "Just Put On Pants, Lando"

The first rule of managing Lando Norris is this:
Start early.

The second rule is:
Do not expect anything to go according to plan. Ever.

The third rule is:
Always bring backup socks.

Unfortunately, you forgot Rule One today, which is why you're standing outside his hotel suite at 8:57 AM, holding an oat milk latte, a black McLaren polo, and a rapidly deteriorating sense of patience.

You knock again, louder this time.

"Lando," you call through the door. "You’ve got a live interview in—" you check your phone, "—twenty-three minutes, and I swear to God, if you’re still asleep—"

The door swings open mid-threat, revealing a half-dressed, very alert Lando Norris with towel-damp curls and not a single ounce of shame.

“Bonjour,” he says cheerfully, shirtless and smug. “Did you miss me?”

Your brain stalls for approximately three seconds, which is three seconds too long.

“I missed the version of you that wears clothes in public,” you say, pushing past him into the room. “We are on a very tight schedule, and you’re giving the energy of a man who just discovered pants are optional.”

Lando shuts the door behind you, still grinning. “I was going to wear pants. Eventually.”

“You said that yesterday, and then you did an entire press Q&A in swim trunks,” you say, tossing the polo at his face. “And not even nice swim trunks. They had pizza slices on them.”

“They were vintage,” he argues, muffled through the shirt now stuck over his head. “Fans loved it.”

“PR had a heart attack,” you reply. “One guy literally had to lie down. I’m pretty sure we lost a sponsor.”

He finally gets the shirt on, backwards, which tracks. You hand him a bottle of hair stuff without comment and start hunting for his shoes. One is under the bed. The other is, of course, on the minibar.

“I was thinking,” Lando says casually, spraying way too much product into his curls, “what if I just… spoke my truth today? No filters. Full authenticity. You know, raw Lando.”

You freeze. “The last time you said that, you told the interviewer that you would Netflix and chill with her.”

“Exactly! Viral moment.”

You point a sneaker at him. “Viral for the wrong reasons. Put these on. Both of them. I’m watching.”

He flops onto the edge of the bed with the dramatic flair of someone auditioning for a soap opera. “You’re so mean to me in the mornings. I’m sensitive, you know.”

“You’re emotionally bulletproof and powered by sugar and chaos,” you reply, checking your phone again. “And if we don’t leave in three minutes, I’m telling the interviewer to ask about your skincare routine just to watch you suffer.”

He gasps. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh, I would. I have the email drafted.”

Lando gives you a wounded look as he jams on his shoes. “You used to be sweet.”

“You hallucinated that,” you reply, yanking his lanyard off the lamp where he somehow hung it last night. “Now come on, your car is waiting and so is my last shred of sanity.”

He follows you out the door, muttering under his breath about betrayal and cruelty and how he’s going to find a way to prank you before the week is over.