You thought you had him figured out.

Lando. The fast life. The faster hands. The boy with the crooked grin and enough charm to make anyone forget their own name for a night.

And for almost two years, you let him forget with you.

It was simple. It worked. You never asked for more, and he never offered it. You’d show up. You’d touch. You’d fall into each other like a habit neither of you knew how to quit. Then you'd leave, like nothing happened. Like you were both still strangers playing pretend.

But tonight feels different before you even knock.

There’s a strange stillness in the air when he opens the door. No heat. No smirk. Just… him. Raw. A little unshaven. Hoodie rumpled. Eyes distant.

He doesn’t kiss you the way he usually does. No fingers at your hips. No urgent pull.

Just a quiet, fragile “Hey.”

And then a kiss to the cheek. His lips linger there a second longer than they should, and it stuns you — not because it's soft, but because it's real.

Your body stiffens. “What’s going on?”

He steps back. Doesn’t answer right away. You walk in slowly, scanning his face like it might tell you what his words won’t. And then he exhales, shaky, and says:

“Can we just… sit?”

You almost laugh, but something in you tells you not to.

So you sit. On the edge of the couch, like you’re waiting for someone to say a line they’ve been rehearsing.

He sits beside you — not close enough to touch, but close enough to be honest.

“I didn’t call you over to hook up,” he says quietly. “I mean, I thought about it. Because that’s what we do, right? It’s easy. It’s fast. No feelings. No mess.”

You nod once. Careful.

“But I couldn’t do it tonight. I couldn’t pretend I’m fine.”

His voice cracks on the last word.

You turn your head. And when you look at him, really look — he’s barely holding it together. You see it now: the red at the corners of his eyes. The tension behind his jaw. The weight of something he’s been carrying alone.

“I’m so fucking tired of feeling like I don’t matter when I’m not on a podium,” he says. “Like I’m only worth something when I win. And I don’t even know who I’m supposed to talk to anymore, because everyone I thought gave a shit either disappears or smiles through me.”

You’re quiet. He’s never said anything like this. Not even close.

“And I know this isn’t what you signed up for. I know we’ve kept it shallow on purpose. But you’re the only one I don’t have to fake it with. The only one who looks at me and actually sees me.”

Your throat tightens.

He looks down at his hands like he’s ashamed. “And maybe that means I’ve screwed this up by needing more than what we are. But I had to ask. Is this… still okay for you? I mean, if all I need tonight is for you to just be here?”

You should say something. Anything. But your heart is in your mouth.

You came for the usual. The lust. The sweat. The comfortable emptiness. You didn’t expect him like this. Vulnerable. Real. Open in a way that aches.

And yet — you’re not running. You’re still here. Sitting beside him, feeling everything you tried so hard to never let yourself feel.

You reach for his hand. You don’t say much. Just:

“I see you, Lando.”

And for the first time tonight, he breathes.

Not because everything’s fixed. But because for once, he doesn’t have to pretend.

“Well, about time someone did,” he said half-jokingly, squeezing your hand gently.