The rain starts as a whisper, then turns into a wall of sound on the roof of the McLaren hospitality unit.

Everyone else is pacing, checking updates, glancing up at the screens. But not Lando. He’s found you in the back corner of the garage — away from the cameras, away from the pit wall radios — and dropped down beside you on the team’s worn-out sofa like it’s the only place he needs to be.

“Rain’s not letting up,” he mumbles, stretching out. “Guess I’ve got time for a nap.”

He doesn’t ask — just lays his head on your thigh like he’s done it a hundred times. Which he has.

You’re in your McLaren hoodie, hands warm against his shoulder, one of them finding its way into his curls without thinking. He exhales through his nose — soft and quiet — and melts into you like gravity doesn’t apply when you touch him.

Around you, radios crackle, engines tick down, conversations rise and fall. But in your bubble, it’s just skin on skin, steady breath, and fingertips in hair.

He hums, half-asleep. “You always smell like home.”

You smile, brushing a thumb across his temple.

Lando’s always like this during delays. When he can’t control the weather, the track, the strategy — he turns to the one thing that steadies him. You.

Someone walks past the curtain, pausing just long enough to peek in, but Lando doesn’t budge. He knows you won’t move. You never do.

The race might be frozen.

But this moment — him tangled into you, heartbeat pressed to your thigh, fingers laced in his curls — it feels like the real win.