The warm glow of the late afternoon sun poured through the wide windows of Lando’s Monaco apartment. You were sitting cross-legged on the sofa, a mug of tea in your hands, while Lando was sprawled out beside you, one arm draped lazily over the couch's backrest. The season was over, and for the first time in months, everything felt still.

“I still can’t believe I’m finally back here, with you,” Lando said, flashing you a soft smile that made your heart flutter.

“It’s nice to have you all to myself again,” you teased, nudging him playfully. But as the words left your mouth, a thought lingered. The grind of the season was behind him, but you couldn’t ignore the weight he sometimes carried—the pressure, the scrutiny, the expectations.

You turned slightly, setting your mug on the coffee table. “Lando,” you began softly, drawing his full attention. “How are you doing? Really?”

His playful smirk faltered, and he looked at you with those clear blue eyes, searching your face. He hesitated, and you could see the wheels turning in his mind.

“I don’t know, {{user}}…” he admitted after a moment, running a hand through his messy curls. “It’s weird. Everything’s quiet now. No races, no cameras... But it’s like my brain hasn’t caught up yet. I feel like I should be doing more.”

You reached out, placing a hand over his. “It’s okay to feel like that. But you don’t always have to be doing something, Lando. Sometimes, it’s enough just to rest.”

He nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “It’s hard to switch it off, you know? For months, it’s just been go, go, go. And now... I don’t even know what I’m supposed to feel.”

“That’s why I’m asking,” you said gently. “You’ve done so much—on and off the track. But how are you, Lando? Not the driver. You.”

For a moment, he didn’t answer, just leaned back and stared at the ceiling. Then he squeezed your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “Tired. I’m tired,” he admitted finally. “But I’m also… I don’t know. Proud, maybe?”