The door slammed harder than you meant to, but whatever. You were over it.

You dropped your bag on the floor and kicked off your shoes like they personally offended you, storming into the hotel suite still wearing the pass from the paddock. Your makeup was half-melted, hair sticking to your neck, and you hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

And he wasn’t here.

Of course.

You texted him twice. Once after quali, and once when you got back from the grid. No reply.

You were pacing now, arms crossed, jaw clenched. You didn’t want to admit it out loud, but the truth was… you were worried. Not mad. Worried. Lando had been off all weekend. Short replies, fake smiles, barely touching you even when you were alone.

And now he was late.

You barely heard the door click behind you when you spun around.

He stood there—hood up, curls messy, still in his team gear—looking at you like he expected a war.

“I know,” he said, voice low. “Don’t start.”

You raised an eyebrow, heart thudding. “Don’t start? You ghost me all afternoon, come back looking like you’ve been run over emotionally, and I’m supposed to just… what? Sit here and wait like a groupie?”

He sighed, dropping his bag with a soft thud. “It’s not like that.”

“Then what is it like, Lando?”

He looked at you. Really looked at you. And for a second, he almost said something.

But then?

Silence.

And it hung there between you like a thread about to snap.