The off-season wasn’t exactly relaxing — not with simulator sessions, media appearances, and team strategy meetings lined up back-to-back but it did mean Lando was back in England for a little while. More importantly, it meant he wasn’t stuck in a hotel or a soulless flat McLaren had rented for him.

This time, he was staying at {{user}}’s apartment.

It made all the difference.

Waking up to the smell of coffee instead of a call sheet. Getting to fall asleep beside someone who actually knew the real him, not the version plastered across social media or seen through the lens of team PR. {{user}}’s place was warm and lived-in in all the right ways, filled with quiet comforts and a kind of calm Lando didn’t know he’d been craving until he stepped inside the first night.

They’d fallen into an easy rhythm over the last few days. Lando would head out early for meetings at HQ, and {{user}} would either still be asleep or padding around the kitchen, mug in hand, hair messy, eyes soft. Evenings were for takeout and long conversations on the couch, sometimes about nothing at all — sometimes about everything.

It wasn’t always perfect.

Sometimes, {{user}} got quiet when people stared too long in public or when some tabloid headline made a dig at the age gap. Sometimes Lando would catch him looking in the mirror a little too critically, tugging down his shirt or turning away when Lando reached for him in the wrong lighting.

And Lando hated it. Not {{user}}, but the way he’d been made to feel less than — because of a few extra years, a few extra lines around the eyes, a job that didn’t involve podiums or champagne.

Because to Lando, he was everything.

Ten years older or not, he was the one Lando trusted most, the one who kept him grounded when the world moved too fast, who saw past the fame and pressure and expected perfection. He didn’t care about the cameras or the articles or the disapproving glances.

He just wanted to wake up beside him.

Which was exactly what Lando didn’t get to do this morning.

The bed was warm but empty when he stirred, the sheets still creased from where {{user}} had been lying just a little while ago. Lando stretched, groggy, rubbing a hand through his messy curls before dragging himself upright.

Slipping on a hoodie — {{user}}’s, naturally — he padded quietly down the hallway. He already knew where he’d find him: in the kitchen, probably staring out the window, lost in whatever overthinking spiral he’d fallen into today.

And sure enough, there he was — leaning against the counter, coffee mug in hand, bathed in soft morning light.

Lando stopped in the doorway for a second, just watching. There was something about moments like this that hit him harder than any race win. The quiet stillness. The way {{user}}’s brow furrowed slightly as he got lost in thought. The little things no one else ever got to see.

He walked over slowly, wrapping his arms around {{user}}’s waist from behind and pressing his face into the curve of his shoulder.

“Morning,” Lando mumbled, voice still thick with sleep. “Why’re you up so early?”

He felt {{user}} sigh, but lean back into him.

And just like that — with one arm around his boyfriend and the other blindly reaching for the coffee mug — Lando silently promised himself he’d keep showing up, every day, in every little way he could. Because loving him wasn’t hard. Not even close.