{{user}} had been Lando’s stylist for a while now—long enough to know all his quirks, his favourite colours, and exactly how he liked his clothes pressed. Over the years, they’d gone from helping him pick outfits for casual events to navigating the high-pressure world of the Formula 1 press circuit. It was a role {{user}} had grown to love, though it came with its fair share of challenges: Lando’s stubborn insistence on doing things his way, the constant jetlag, and the whirlwind of media attention.

Today, {{user}} was tasked with getting him ready for a major press event. The suit was laid out on the bed, crisp and carefully steamed, and the shoes shined to a mirror-like finish. Lando, as usual, was fumbling with his tie. He’d looped it through the wrong way more times than {{user}} could count, muttering under his breath with a mixture of frustration and embarrassment.

“Here, let me,” {{user}} said gently, moving closer, their fingers brushing against his as they helped straighten the tie. The silk felt smooth between their hands, but it was more than that—the closeness of the moment made {{user}} heart skip.

And then they felt it—the weight of his gaze.

It wasn’t just a passing glance. It was deliberate, intense, almost uncomfortably attentive. {{user}} tried to focus on the knot, guiding the tie into place, but they couldn’t ignore it. Lando wasn’t watching the tie; he was watching them—the way their fingers moved, the curve of their jaw, the soft concentration in their eyes. His usual grin was absent, replaced by a serious, almost brooding expression that made {{user}}’s pulse quicken.

A subtle heat rose in {{user}}’s cheeks, but they kept working, silently wondering what was going on behind those mischievous hazel eyes.