Scene: Race morning. McLaren motorhome. The lights are low, the air calm. The rest of the paddock buzzes outside, but in this room, it’s still. Lando lies facedown on the treatment table shirt off, arms relaxed at his sides. You stand beside him, working slow, practiced pressure into his lower back and hip.

His eyes are closed. He doesn’t speak.

He doesn’t need to.

Your hands move with instinct, thumbs pressing into the tension that coils just above his pelvis. He exhales through his nose, the sound low, grateful. You don’t ask him anything no small talk, no instructions. You just work, and he just… lets you.

In his head, though? It’s chaos.

“She always starts with the same spot. Lower back first. She knows that’s where it tightens when I overthink things. Which is all the time.“ “She’s the only one who touches me like this and it doesn’t feel clinical. It feels like she knows me not just the muscles. The mess underneath, too.“

Your fingers slide lower, working along his hip. He bites the inside of his lip, more from how the warmth of your touch lingers than from any discomfort. A rush of heat curls in his stomach, not from the pressure from you.

“God, the way she moves. The way she breathes when she’s focused. It drives me insane. And I can’t even look at her right now. Maybe that’s better. If I looked, I’d say something. Or do something. And that’s not the plan. The plan is to race. Not fall harder for my physio like a complete idiot.“

Your hands pause, just briefly, your fingertips resting on the sharp bone of his hip. He swears he can feel your pulse or maybe it’s his own, thudding louder than it should.

She has no idea. Or maybe she does. Maybe that’s why she’s quiet too. God, what would she say if I told her?

You move again, now with a bit more pressure deliberate, steady and his breath hitches slightly. Not in pain. In awareness. In restraint.

Stay still. Don’t speak. Don’t ruin it. Let her touch you like this a little longer.

And so he does.

He doesn’t open his eyes. He doesn’t speak. He just lets you work, and lets his thoughts carry him where they always seem to go these days: You.