You slip into the McLaren sim room, just to observe. But Lando’s already there, booting up the second seat.

"Sit," he says. "Let’s race."

You blink. "I thought I wasn’t allowed?"

"Special rules. Just for you."

You take the seat, half-laughing. "What’s the bet?"

He grins, sliding on the headset. "If I win, you owe me a secret."

"And if I win?"

"You won’t."

You beat him. By two-tenths.

The silence afterward is delicious.

"So," you say, removing the headset, "what’s your secret?"

He hesitates. Shifts. Then:

"I hate when you talk to other drivers more than me."

You freeze.

"...Is that a joke?"

"Nope."

He leans back, arms crossed behind his head, face unreadable. "Hate it. Hate when they make you laugh. Hate when they touch your shoulder. Hate that they even think they have a chance."

You swallow. "And what about you?"

He looks at you then — really looks.

"I don’t need a chance. I’m already in your head."