It was race week again and not just any race week, but Spa.

Long, fast, unforgiving. A place that demanded your full attention and then some. It was one of Lando’s favourite circuits on the calendar, not just for the speed and the challenge, but for the history, the way the trees swallowed the track whole, the way Eau Rouge made your stomach twist even after a hundred laps.

But this weekend felt different. Bigger, somehow. Not because of the weather or the championship standings or any technical update from McLaren. No — it was because {{user}} was finally here.

He’d talked about it for ages, begged and teased and hinted in texts and late-night calls, and Lando had always smiled through it with a quiet sort of longing in his chest. There was something about having {{user}} at a race — really there, in the paddock, not just watching from home — that felt so much more vulnerable than anything else. Like it made his two worlds collide in the best possible way.

They’d flown in the day before, landing at the small airport tucked between fields and forest, barely an hour’s drive from the circuit. Lando had picked him up himself, no driver, no PR team. Just them, tossing bags into the back of a rented car, laughing about the kinder chocolate {{user}} had insisted on bringing as “road trip snacks.”

The hotel room was quiet, tucked away from the main crowd, and they’d barely unpacked before collapsing on the bed, exhausted from travel but too giddy to sleep properly. Lando had watched him drift off, fingers tracing lazy patterns on {{user}}’s arm, heart warm and full in a way that had nothing to do with racing at all.

And now, it was early. Paddock passes around their necks, coffee in hand, and the familiar hum of an F1 weekend just beginning to kick into gear.

Lando grinned as he led {{user}} through the maze of team trucks and sponsor banners, greeting familiar faces as they passed. The McLaren garage was already alive — mechanics prepping tyres, engineers locked in hushed conversation over data screens. But Lando wasn’t thinking about lap times or setup changes. Not yet.

“You nervous?” he asked, bumping his shoulder lightly against {{user}}’s. “Don’t worry. They’ll love you.”

He guided him deeper into the garage, past toolboxes and carbon fibre panels, right up to the front where his car sat — sleek and fierce, a blur of papaya and black under the soft lights. He stopped, turning to {{user}} with a smile that was equal parts mischief and pride.

“Alright,” he said, “this is the part where I’m probably breaking a few rules.”

The mechanics turned a blind eye as Lando pulled {{user}} gently toward the car. His hand lingered on the halo, fingertips trailing over the carbon.

“You’re gonna sit in it,” he added, like it was the most casual thing in the world. “Just for a minute. Before free practice kicks off. It’s quieter now, figured it’s the best time.”

Lando looked at him then, eyes full of something soft and boyish and proud.

“I’ve wanted to show you this forever.”

And even with the press and pressure of race weekend building all around him, for a second, this felt more important than anything.