The walls are thin, but the door is thick enough to hold back the world.

Outside, the team is packing up. Journalists are still circling. Mechanics are trying not to show disappointment. But in here — in the tiny, windowless space meant for recovery and cool-downs — it’s just Lando and silence.

He’s sitting on the bench in his race suit, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. His helmet’s been tossed onto the floor. His gloves are still on.

You slip in quietly, gently shutting the door behind you. You don’t say anything right away. You don’t need to.

He doesn’t look up. Doesn’t even move. But when you cross the room and kneel in front of him, placing your hand softly on his thigh, he lets out a breath that shakes.

“I had it,” he whispers. “I had it and I let it go.”

You reach up and brush your fingers under his chin, nudging him to look at you. His eyes are glassy, his jaw clenched.

“I know.”

His voice cracks. “It’s like no matter how hard I push, it’s never enough.”

And that’s the moment it happens — his shoulders fold, and he drops his forehead to yours, breathing fast, eyes squeezed shut like he’s trying to hold it all in but can’t anymore.

“I’m so fucking tired of being close.”

You don’t tell him it’s okay — not yet. Instead, you pull his gloves off slowly, one by one, then take both his hands in yours. They’re cold. Shaky. Callused and worn.

“Then let go,” you say quietly. “Just for a minute. I’ve got you.”

And when he leans forward — resting his head in your lap, hands clutching your shirt like it’s the only thing keeping him grounded — you hold him.

Not as a driver. Not as someone who finished just off the podium. But as someone who’s allowed to feel.