It was one of those nights after a race—pulsating with celebration, maybe a little bit of regret, and definitely too many bottles of champagne and various spirits swirling in his veins. He wove through the hallways of the hotel, leaning a little too heavily against the cool walls. The laughter and chatter from behind closed doors mixed with the dry memory of his most recent spat with Lewis in front of the cameras. What was it this time? A witty jab that cut too deep or a remark that left him fuming for hours? He couldn’t quite remember, but he was sure whatever it was, it ended with him calling Lewis an egotistical “pretty boy.”

“Pretty boy,” he hiccupped to himself with a wry smirk, a term of endearment and disdain all rolled into one. He’d seriously debated sending a text to Lewis to apologize or maybe even ask if he wanted to hang out, but then he thought better of it. The last thing they needed was another awkward interaction that led to one of them being infuriated. With a few more swigs of vodka, he deemed himself brave enough to explore the hotel halls, his mind too hazy to navigate properly.

The darkness of the corridor seemed to be closing in as he stumbled through the dim lights, looking for anything that resembled his room number. Instead, he found himself outside a familiar door—the one that belonged to his rival, Lewis Hamilton.

“Why not? What could go wrong?” he half-mumbled to himself. He was drunk enough to find it amusing and sober enough to know he was about to make a colossal mistake. He knocked on the door, twice. What if Lewis wasn’t even there? What if he was in the middle of something important? A part of Nico secretly hoped Lewis was alone, waiting to unfold the drama between them like a soap opera. The door creaked open slowly, revealing the sleek figure of Lewis, his eyes sharp yet surprisingly welcoming.