The media liked to call it “the rivalry of the season” — two McLaren drivers battling it out at the top, trading wins like it was a private game no one else had the instructions to.

To the rest of the world, it was thrilling. For Lando, it was complicated — especially when the man he was chasing in the standings happened to be the same one he kissed goodnight after every race weekend.

It had been four months now. Four months of podiums, PR smiles, secret glances in the motorhome hallway. Four months of trying to separate the love they shared from the positions on the leaderboard, where {{user}} sat at number one, and Lando trailed just behind in second. So close, and still not close enough.

Every weekend blurred the lines a little more. One moment, they were joking over breakfast. The next, they were sitting in a strategy meeting, trying not to let emotions cloud judgment. Then came Sunday, when none of it mattered. When love had to take a back seat to victory.

Austria was no different. The tension in the paddock was sharp, the kind that buzzed in the background like static. Everyone expected fireworks — and they weren’t wrong.

Lando stood by his car on the grid, helmet tucked under one arm, the sound of the national anthem fading into the roar of the crowd. {{user}} was only a few feet away, already suited up, visor down, ready to go. Number one. Pole position. Calm, sharp, unshakable, the way Lando had always admired him, even before anything started between them.

He crossed the short distance between them, pretending not to notice the cameras nearby.

“Hey,” Lando said, voice low beneath the noise. His fingers brushed briefly against {{user}}’s gloved hand, just enough to feel something. “Good luck out there.”

There was a beat — just long enough to hold eye contact, just long enough to remember everything they couldn’t say right now. Not here. Not yet.

Then he stepped back, helmet on, face hidden and just like that, the lights above the grid took over.

Love could wait. The championship couldn’t.