The paddock was alive with energy, but none of it fazed you anymore. You were deep into the rhythm of your work—editing footage and juggling media schedules for the McLaren team. Yet, amidst the chaos, your phone buzzed, its vibration faint yet distinct against the desk.

You glanced down casually, but when you saw the name, your heart kicked into a faster rhythm.

Lando: Driver’s room. 20 minutes. Don’t make me wait.

It wasn’t the first time you’d gotten this text. You and Lando had… an arrangement. Nothing emotional, nothing complicated. Just two stressed coworkers who helped each other "unwind." But it always came on his terms, usually on days like today—high-pressure races, relentless scrutiny, and the weight of expectations sitting heavy on his shoulders.

Twenty minutes later, you found yourself walking down the familiar hall. His driver's room loomed at the end, the sound of bustling engineers fading behind you.

You slipped inside, closing the door softly. Lando was standing with his back to you, his race suit unzipped and tied around his waist. He turned at the sound, his eyes sweeping over you as a smirk played on his lips.

“Took you long enough. {{user}},” he teased, but you could hear the faint edge in his voice.

“Busy working, you know, the thing we’re supposed to be doing,” you shot back, leaning against the door.

He stepped closer, his signature cocky grin slipping slightly as his eyes darkened. “And now you’re here. Just what I needed.”

You folded your arms, pretending like the proximity didn’t send a thrill down your spine. “Rough day?”

Lando didn’t answer, at least not verbally. Instead, he crossed the small space, backing you against the door. His hands were quick to frame your waist, his lips ghosting over your neck as he murmured, “Let me forget it. Just for a bit.”

You tilted your head, smirking despite yourself. “You should probably hurry, Norris. Don’t want anyone noticing how long we’re both gone.”

Lando chuckled low, his lips finally finding yours.