The hotel room was quiet — too quiet for what had just happened only hours ago.

Silverstone.

His home race.

And he’d won.

Lando still hadn’t fully wrapped his head around it. The cheers from the crowd were still echoing somewhere in the back of his mind, every chant of his name burned into his skin like sunlight. He could still smell the champagne, still feel the weight of the trophy in his hands, still see the blur of orange and fluro in the stands.

But right now, all of it was fading, because they were finally here. Alone.

He shut the door softly behind him, the noise of the city and the afterparties slipping away like a layer of static being peeled off. His cap was in his hand, hair slightly flattened from it, curls starting to fall over his forehead as he ran his fingers through them. His face was flushed, still glowing — from the heat of the day, the win, the moment.

“You were perfect today,” {{user}} said from the couch, voice low and warm.

Lando smiled, the kind of smile he only ever gave {{user}}. “Felt like a dream,” he murmured, crossing the room slowly, almost like he didn’t want to break whatever calm had settled over them. “But this.” he gestured between them, “this might be even better.”

He dropped his things on the table without looking, eyes never leaving {{user}}. His shirt clung slightly to his back from the heat, and there was still a bit of champagne sparkle clinging to his collar.

He came to stand in front of {{user}}, a quiet kind of energy buzzing between them now. The one that always showed up when the world outside didn’t exist — when it was just the two of them in some hotel room, miles away from reality.

Lando leaned in, his voice just above a whisper. “Can I have you now?” he asked, not shy, not rushed, just honest. “Been thinking about it since before the lights went out.”