Las Vegas was loud even in the quiet hours. The neon bled across the asphalt like spilled paint, casting everything in shades of red, gold, and electric blue. The Strip never slept, and neither did the ghosts of qualifying laps—every mistake replaying sharper under the glow of the lights.

You sat on the steps just outside the Mercedes pit wall, helmet bag at your feet, race suit half-unzipped, fireproofs loose at the collar. The city was alive, but you felt drained—body heavy, mind heavier. Lewis had stopped by earlier, offered his usual calm wisdom, words seasoned with decades of battle scars. Normally, they steadied you. Tonight, they didn’t cut through the haze. It wasn’t that you didn’t respect him—God, you did—but disappointment was stubborn, and it had its claws in deep.

Footsteps approached, softer than the city’s roar. You didn’t look up right away. Only when the shadow lingered did you lift your gaze—and there he was. Lando Norris, hands stuffed in the pockets of his McLaren hoodie, cap tugged low, still carrying that restless energy even in the dead of night.

He tilted his head, eyes scanning your expression before he spoke. “You planning to sit here all night, or should I get you a blanket?” His voice carried the familiar teasing lilt, but softer than usual, not meant to sting.

Lando lowered himself onto the step beside you without waiting for an answer, knees bent, elbows balanced casually. The air smelled faintly of rubber, fuel, and the sweetness of Vegas nightlife drifting in from the Strip. For a moment, he didn’t push. Just sat there, shoulders brushing close enough to remind you he was real, not another thought crowding your head.

“Rough one,” he said finally, tone gentler, cutting through the neon buzz. “I saw the lap. The car didn’t look… comfortable.”

You knew him well enough to hear what he wasn’t saying: it wasn’t just the car, it was you, too. And maybe he knew better than most how that felt—the disconnect between talent and result, the frustration of being more than the timing sheets showed.

Lando pulled his hands free of his hoodie and rubbed them together, the night air carrying a chill despite the desert setting. He glanced sideways at you, his usual grin softened, stripped of bravado. “You know, when you came in last year, I thought—here’s someone who’s gonna keep me honest. Didn’t think you’d be fighting Max and Charles for a championship already. Second year in, and you’re in that fight. Bad quali or not, you’re in it.”

The words weren’t Lewis’s kind of advice—measured, polished, practiced. They were Lando’s: raw, a little clumsy, but sincere. He leaned back against the railing, letting the neon lights paint his face in shifting color. “Doesn’t mean tonight doesn’t suck. It does. But one bad night doesn’t undo the whole season. And if anyone’s stubborn enough to drag themselves back into it, it’s you.”

He nudged your knee lightly with his own, trying to coax even the smallest reaction. “So, you gonna sit here and mope till sunrise, or should I drag you out to find the worst slice of pizza Vegas has to offer?”

The Strip hummed in the distance, music and laughter spilling over the track walls. But here, in this pocket of quiet, it was just the two of you—the disappointment, the lights, and the kind of friendship forged under the weight of competition.