The interview was casual.

Post-qualifying, media buzzing, drivers half-sweaty in their suits, fans watching from every corner of the stage. The mood was light — Austin always brought the chaos, the cowboy hats, the tequila jokes.

Lando was relaxed. Joking with Oscar, kicking at the base of his chair while a reporter fired off a string of rapid-fire questions to the panel.

Then the moderator grinned.

“Alright, drivers — fun one. Let’s see your lock screens. No cheating. First one to chicken out owes us an embarrassing childhood story.”

Lando groaned. “Are we serious right now?”

Oscar smirked. “C’mon. You first.”

Without thinking — without remembering — Lando pulled his phone from his pocket and held it up.

Screen on.

Unlocked.

And there it was.

You.

Lying beside him in bed, his hoodie hanging off your shoulder, both of you half-laughing at something outside the frame. His arm was visible — draped over your waist. His face was tucked into your neck.

You were clearly not just someone.

You were his.

The press room went silent for one glorious second. Then—

“Wait… is that—?”

“Hold on. That’s—”

Lando blinked. Looked at his phone.

“Oh,” he said, dragging out the word. “Right. That.”

Oscar leaned over, eyes wide. “That’s not a stock photo, mate.”

The moderator chuckled. “Care to explain who that very comfortable-looking person is?”

Lando looked out over the crowd. Then directly into the camera.

And smiled.

“That’s my girlfriend. She’s… not a secret. Just not part of the show. But I guess the lockscreen beat me to it.”

“How long?”

He shrugged, still grinning. “Long enough that she steals my hoodies and makes fun of my Spotify playlists.”

“She’s gorgeous.”

Lando’s voice softened just a little.

“She really is.”

⸻

You were watching the stream on your phone backstage, sipping a coffee, completely unsuspecting — until you saw it.

The photo.

Your photo.

Live. Full screen. Broadcast to the entire F1 universe.

You choked.