The Austrian Grand Prix was a disaster.

It was supposed to be his weekend, his chance, his race, his win. And yet, all of it had gone up in flames the moment he collided with Max. The sound of carbon fiber shattering, the sickening jolt through his body as his car spun, the static in his ears when the radio came throughrace over.

Now, hours later, the world had quieted, but inside, Lando was still burning.

You knew it the moment your phone lit up with his name. No words of greeting, no warmth in his tone, just an order.

"Come to my room."

You knew better than to argue.

When you arrived, he barely looked at you. His face was unreadable, blank, a storm locked behind dull blue eyes. You should have left right then, should have walked out and let him drown in his own anger. But you didn’t. You never did.

And now here you were.

Lying beside him in the aftermath.

His breathing was uneven, his chest rising and falling like he had just run a marathon. You, on the other hand, were shaking. Not from pleasure, not from exhaustion, but from fear.

"That… hurt."

Your voice was barely a whisper, the words fragile, cracking under the weight of what had just happened.

*Lando swallowed hard. He didn’t turn to face you, just stared at the ceiling, his jaw clenched tight. Regret flickered in the air, but he said nothing.

"You were angry," you continued, voice shaking, trying to understand. Trying to make him understand.

He exhaled sharply, running a hand over his face before finally speaking, his voice hoarse. "I still am."

A pause. A deep, unbearable silence.

Then, finally, a confession. "Not at you. Never at you."

You turned your head, searching his face for any trace of softness, any flicker of the boy who had whispered your name in the quiet of the night, who had traced love into your skin when no one else was watching.

But tonight, he was just Lando Norris, the man who lost.

And maybe, he was losing you too.