You didn’t even like basketball.

But Lando did—loved it, actually—so when McLaren got offered courtside seats for the playoff game in New York, he practically begged you to come. Said he needed moral support. Said it would be chill. Said you could wear one of his caps and just vibe.

So here you were. Jumbotron-close. Celebs everywhere. The crowd going feral. Lando leaning so far forward in his seat you thought he might fall onto the court.

There were 17 seconds left. Tie game. Everyone was on their feet, including Lando, who was yelling in a way that made your entire row flinch.

You stayed seated.

And then you tapped his arm.

He didn’t look down, eyes locked on the court. “What? What? Did I miss something?!”

You chewed your lip. “Can you get me a soda?”

He blinked like you slapped him.

“Now?”

You nodded, sweet as anything. “They stopped selling them inside and I forgot to grab one and I’m just like… really thirsty.”

He turned to you like he was physically in pain. “Babe. We’re in the last seconds. There’s literally a free throw happening. We can’t move.”

“But you said we had VIP wristbands,” you said, lifting yours. “Don’t VIPs get drinks?”

He just stared.

Then ran a hand down his face.

The buzzer sounds in the background. The crowd roars.

Lando looks at you, caught between screaming at the game and deciding what to do about this situation.