The paddock was buzzing with energy — pre-race tension, the hum of equipment, and the usual chaos of a race weekend. Media teams darted around, engineers checked telemetry, and the drivers, in various stages of focus, wandered in and out of their garages.

Lando leaned casually against the McLaren pit wall, water bottle in hand, watching the screens like he was paying attention. He wasn’t. He was waiting.

“She’s not even here yet, mate,” Oscar Piastri said, walking up beside him, a slight smirk on his face. “You’ve looked down that walkway five times in the past minute.”

“I haven’t,” Lando said, unconvincingly.

“Bro,” Charles Leclerc chimed in as he joined them, “just ask her out already.”

Lando rolled his eyes. “It’s not that simple.”

Charles grinned. “It’s literally exactly that simple. You like her. She clearly likes you. You’re just being—how do you say—a little chicken.”

Lando shot him a glare. “Thanks, Charles. Very helpful.”

Oscar laughed. “Seriously though, you’ve known her how long now?”

“Couple months,” Lando muttered.