Silverstone mornings always came early — the air still a little crisp, the buzz of media crews and engineers already humming across the paddock. But this morning wasn’t about the chaos or the cars. Not yet.

This morning, it was about you.

Lando met you just outside the paddock gate, hair still damp from his shower and one hand shoved in the pocket of his hoodie, the one from his 2025 merch drop that you’d said made him look like a neon highlighter. He wore it anyway.

“C’mon,” he said with that crooked grin, already reaching for your hand. “Got something to show you.”

Last year had been hard. You hadn’t come — not to the race, not even to the hotel after. You’d tried. Packed a bag, circled the date on your calendar, said all the right things. But when the weekend came, it was just… too much. The crowd, the pressure, the noise of it all.

Lando had never blamed you. He knew what your anxiety felt like, how it built and tangled and swallowed you whole when the world got too loud. He’d understood. But he’d missed you. More than he’d ever said out loud.

So after the season ended, he made a promise to himself: Next year, I bring him here. But on my terms. On his terms.

Which is exactly how the Landostand was born.

Officially? A marketing stunt. A sea of neon yellow at Stowe corner, packed with fans in Lando-themed shirts, sunglasses, even temporary tattoos. There were DJs. Cocktail bars. A live countdown to lights out. It sold out in minutes — ten thousand people, all screaming his name.

But only he knew the real reason.

Because if you were going to face the noise again, Lando wanted to make sure it was on your terms — full of joy and safety and people who loved you. He’d even slipped your name onto the guest list for the private section — the little cordoned-off area with plush seats and no cameras — just in case you felt like watching from there.

But that wasn’t even the best part.

No, the best part was the Lando House.

Standing just before the Landostand was the small, modern bungalow he’d commissioned with some help from McLaren and a lot of begging. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t supposed to be. But it was safe.

Only close ones had access: his family, Max, a few old karting mates. And you. Especially you.

“I wanted you to have somewhere that felt… like yours,” Lando murmured as he led you inside. “In case it all gets too loud again. Just slip away and come here. No questions, no pressure.”

It smelled like fresh coffee and those Caprisuns he loved so much. The walls were lined with pictures — some of the two of you, some of his family, even one of you and Oscar that he pretended not to like. The couch had that same old throw blanket you’d argued over last winter. And the fridge? Stocked with your favorite drinks and that weird oat milk you always bought.

“I know we’re staying at the hotel,” he added quickly, glancing around the room like he was seeing it through your eyes, “but I wanted somewhere close. Just for you. Somewhere you could breathe.”

You didn’t even need to say anything. The way your shoulders dropped, the way your hand tightened in his — that was enough.

Lando smiled, pressing a kiss to your temple. “It’s not much,” he whispered, “but it’s ours. Just like this weekend.”