It was the morning of their wedding — a day Lando had imagined a hundred times over, but now that it was here, it felt surreal. The kind of surreal that made his hands shake a little when he tried to button his shirt, or when he caught his own reflection and realized this was it. This was the day he’d marry {{user}}.

He’d proposed during a vacation in the Amalfi Coast — something he’d planned in secret during a rare break in the Formula 1 calendar. Just the two of them in a private villa tucked away above the sea, sunsets that looked like they were pulled from a dream, and candlelit dinners where he almost popped the question three nights in a row before finally going through with it on the fourth. {{user}} had cried, said yes before he could finish the question, and they’d stayed up until sunrise wrapped around each other, talking about forever.

Now, months later, they were in an estate just outside London, the sun finally breaking through the clouds after a morning of rain. He was in a room with his dad and a few of his closest mates, the kind of quiet chaos that felt like being in the paddock before a race — jokes flying, nerves hidden under humor, everyone pretending they weren’t a little emotional.

Lando had only seen {{user}} once that morning — a flash of familiar eyes at the end of the hallway before someone (probably from {{user}}’s Side of the Family) herded them in opposite directions with a dramatic gasp about bad luck. But that one look had done something to him. Grounded him. Reminded him exactly why he was here.

He was ready now. Dressed. Breath steady. Heart not calm, but full. His dad stood by the door, hand outstretched, smile soft with pride. The music had started to drift in faintly through the walls, and someone was calling for everyone to take their places.