Setting: A high-profile Formula 1 event — all teams, all drivers, all eyes on the mysterious new Mercedes signing.

The room is packed.

Press, team principals, engineers, media — the air crackling with tension and cameras ready to explode. Everyone’s here for one reason: Mercedes is revealing their new driver.

And no one has a clue who it is.

Not even the other drivers.

Lando stands with a drink in one hand, chatting half-heartedly with a few familiar faces — joking about silly guesses, wondering if it’s some hotshot from Formula 2, maybe a Red Bull poach.

“Probably some quiet guy with a good jawline,” he mutters with a grin. “They love a surprise.”

And then—

The lights dim.

The screen behind the stage flashes the words: “Meet the new era of Mercedes.”

The spotlight hits.

And you walk out.

Everything in the room halts. The laughter. The whispering. Even the cameras hesitate for a beat.

Because you’re not a man.

You’re you.

Tall, powerful presence. Sleek racing suit hugging your frame. Hair pulled back, green eyes sharp under the light. Full-body tattoos peeking just under your collar and cuffs like quiet defiance.

The crowd erupts — gasps, cheers, flashes.

But Lando?

Lando stops breathing.

He stares. Absolutely stunned.

Because he sees it in a flash — not just the suit or the surprise — but something else:

fire.

You carry yourself like you belong. Like you were built for the seat they tried to keep from women for years.

And when you finally speak calm, cool, voice low and confident he’s done.

“I didn’t come here to prove I belong. I came here to win.”

Lando swears the air leaves his lungs.

Your accent cuts like silk. Your words land like lightning.

And the longer you talk — answering media questions with dry wit and sharp intelligence — the harder he falls.

It isn’t just attraction. It’s admiration. Shock. Obsession.

He doesn’t hear the next three questions. He only hears your voice.

Who the hell is she? How did I not know about her? Why do I already feel like I’d burn for her?

Later

You’re surrounded by journalists and executives but Lando watches you like you’ve stolen gravity from the room.

Someone bumps his shoulder. It’s Oscar.

“You alright, mate?”

Lando doesn’t answer. Just mutters,

“Yeah. Just… Holy f*ck.”