He was twelve. Maybe thirteen.

You showed up on a Saturday morning with your suit half-zipped and a ponytail looped through your helmet strap. Someone said your dad used to race. Someone else said you were fast. Lando just stood there, holding his gloves and staring like an idiot.

You didn’t notice.

Not at first, anyway.

He watched from the paddock while you zipped through corners like you weren’t even trying. You overtook two boys in one lap. Took P3 like it was nothing. Then came back, yanked off your helmet, and sighed like you’d wanted more.

That was the exact moment he got weird.

Started stammering. Dropping things. Nearly walked straight into a tire wall trying to look casual while you rolled your kart to scrutineering. His friends teased him for the rest of the day.

“You’ve got a cruuuuush,” One sang under his breath.

“No I don’t,” Lando lied.

He tried to talk to you once—by the snack table. You were unwrapping a granola bar and he stood there like a statue, then blurted out, “Your cornering’s really good.”

You blinked. “Thanks.”

He nodded. You nodded. Then you walked away. He didn’t move for five whole minutes.

Later, he found a sticker from a tire brand in his bag and debated giving it to you. He didn’t. Just peeled it halfway and stuck it to his notebook with your kart number scribbled underneath.

That night, he couldn’t sleep.

Not because of nerves—not because of the next race or the leaderboard or anything important.

Because he couldn’t stop thinking about the way your sleeves were too long, and how you made P3 but still looked a little disappointed, and how you said “thanks” like it didn’t even occur to you that someone might be nervous talking to you.

He wanted to sit with you behind the trailer. Share his gummy worms. Ask how long you’d been racing and if you ever got scared before turn four.

He didn’t.

But the next morning, you looked at him first. Just for a second.

And he smiled so hard he missed his warmup.