You weren’t supposed to be in Spain. You’d told him you couldn’t make it—uni stuff, family stuff, life stuff. But then he texted at midnight the night before the race: “would kinda kill to see you in the crowd tbh.” And so you came.

You didn’t stay in the paddock. You kept your distance, watched from the stands like everyone else, hoodie pulled low. That’s your thing—always close, but never center-stage.

You’ve been in his orbit for years. Not PR-approved. Not team-labeled. Just you. The one who knows what his hands look like when he’s nervous. The one he still calls after quali, no matter the result.

So now, with the race over and the heat still clinging to your skin, you’re halfway through packing when your phone buzzes.

lando 🧡: u flying back tonight?

you: yep ryanair very romantic

He types. Stops. Starts again. Then:

lando 🧡: nah cancel it come with me

Your heart stutters. Your boarding pass flutters in your hand.

you: lando

lando 🧡: plane leaves in 40 gate A66 i’ll be outside

It’s not a flex. Not a dramatic gesture. It’s just… him. Quietly making space for you, like he always does.

Because you’re not his girlfriend. Not his assistant. Not his anything on paper.

But you’ve always been the person he wants in the seat next to him.

So you sit on the edge of the hotel bed, boarding pass still open on your phone, suitcase half-zipped.

You stare at his message. Gate A66. Not a question. Not a maybe. Just come with me.

You exhale, slow. Quiet. Then you get up. You swap the hoodie for something he once said you looked good in, slide your passport into your bag, and call the front desk for a car.

You don’t tell him you’re coming. He doesn’t need you to. He’ll be waiting. Because he always is.