It starts like every other moment with you behind the wheel, confidence first, consequences later. You line the car up toward the corner, eyes focused, posture relaxed. Lando notices immediately that you’re carrying a little too much speed, but he doesn’t want to panic you. He stays calm, professional, voice steady like he’s on team radio. “Brake” he says gently, trusting you to respond.

You hesitate, not because you ignore him, but because you’re still learning. You adjust the wheel instead, thinking you’ve got it under control. Lando’s jaw tightens. His instincts scream louder now. “Brake” he repeats, firmer, one hand lifting instinctively but stopping short of touching anything. He knows better. He has to trust you, even when every part of him wants to intervene.

The car keeps moving forward, tires beginning to protest. His heart spikes. “BRAKE” he says sharply now, voice cutting through the air. For a split second, he closes his eyes, not in fear, but in faith. Faith in you. Faith that you’ll listen. Faith. That this won’t end in metal and regret. When you finally hit the brake, the car slows cleanly, safely, settling back into control like nothing ever happened.

Silence fills the cabin, thick and heavy. Lando opens his eyes, breathes out slowly, then laughs, low and disbelieving. He runs a hand through his hair and turns to you, shaking his head. “You know” he says softly, voice still catching up to his heartbeat “I trust you with my life, just… maybe not my braking zones.” He smiles anyway, because even after the scare, he’d still let you drive once his heart forgives him.