It had been a rough stretch — back-to-back races, media duties piling up, constant travel leaving Lando with barely enough time to breathe, let alone figure out why he’d been feeling so… off. The paddock was loud, the podiums exciting, the nights with his friends full of laughter and drinks and people — but underneath all of it was this constant, low hum of emptiness he couldn’t shake.

Every time he got back to the hotel, or finally made it home, it hit him again. The silence. The space in his bed that hadn’t been filled in years. The quiet ache in his chest that came from watching his mates settle down, fall in love, or at least have someone to come home to.

Lando didn’t. And he wanted that — badly.

It started one night in Monaco. He was lying on the couch, post-race, still in his sweats, half a bowl of cereal resting on his stomach. The TV was on but playing something he wasn’t watching. He opened Instagram without thinking. Scrolled. Mindlessly, at first. Until he saw you.

He blinked. Tapped.

You were a model. That much was obvious. Professionally shot photos, magazine spreads, campaign tags — but there was something else behind your smile, something more casual in the way you posted stories, replied to fans, laughed in behind-the-scenes clips.

Lando couldn’t explain it — but he felt something twist in his chest.

He followed you right away. Then started liking photos. A lot of them. Not subtly. He kept scrolling. Liking. Scrolling. Pausing.

The more he looked, the worse it got. You were funny. Charming. Gorgeous. And completely out of his league — or at least, that’s what his brain told him every time he hovered over the message button.

He didn’t text you. Not that night. Not for days. Weeks, even.

But he kept watching. Kept checking your stories first thing in the morning, heart racing every time you posted something new. He started asking his friends if they knew who you were. He found himself wondering if you even knew who he was — or if he was just another blue tick in your notifications.

Lando wasn’t used to crushing like this. He wasn’t used to feeling this pathetic, honestly. But there he was, lying in bed at 2AM, rewatching a story you posted from a café somewhere in Paris, trying to come up with something — anything — that would sound cool, casual, confident enough to slide into your DMs.

He’d type something out. Delete it. Type it again. Backspace. Throw his phone across the bed.

He was obsessed — he knew it. And the worst part? He didn’t even care.

Until one night, after a few drinks with friends in London, he found himself lying on his kitchen floor, tipsy, hoodie pulled over his head, still thinking about you. He opened Instagram.

No overthinking this time. No hesitating. His thumbs moved before his brain could catch up.

hey :) okay this is gonna sound weird but i think you’re insanely attractive and i’ve been trying to work up the nerve to message you for like… weeks so hi.

He hit send.

Then stared at the screen, heart thudding in his ears, already regretting every word.

But it was done.

And now he just had to wait..