The Belgian Grand Prix weekend had felt doomed from the start. Not because of the rain-soaked practice sessions or the relentless media obligations, but because of the quiet, invisible rift that had opened between {{user}} and Lando in the days leading up to it.

It was the little things — clipped answers, distracted stares, conversations cut short by an incoming call or a knock at the door. By Saturday night, the tension was unbearable, simmering just under the surface until one wrong word was enough to set it all off.

It happened outside the hotel, the paddock still buzzing faintly in the distance. Voices too sharp for the late hour, frustration spilling over into accusations neither of them could take back. There was no careful pause, no deep breath, no reaching for each other’s hands like they usually did to stop the spiral — only the cold slam of a hotel room door and the ache of knowing neither wanted to open it again.

By the time {{user}} woke up on Sunday morning, the damage was already done.

The bed beside him was cold. The faint scent of Lando’s cologne clung stubbornly to the pillow, but his suitcase was gone. A lone hoodie sat draped over the arm of the couch, as if forgotten in the rush to leave. On the desk, the glossy McLaren weekend pass he’d been wearing just hours ago lay facedown, the lanyard curled like it was recoiling from touch.

Checking his phone felt pointless, but he did it anyway. No new messages. No missed calls. Only the bitter confirmation from a mutual friend that the Private jet had left Spa before noon — headed for Monaco. Lando hadn’t gone alone; Alex Albon was with him, probably already making him laugh in a way {{user}} couldn’t anymore.

For a brief moment, the idea of booking a flight to Monaco crossed his mind. To show up at the apartment they’d built together and force the conversation neither of them had been ready to have. But the thought of stepping off the plane and finding the same closed-off expression from last night waiting for him… was enough to make his chest tighten.

Instead, he booked a one-way ticket to Spain. To his parents’ house — somewhere quiet, familiar, and far enough away that the sound of engines or the sight of orange McLaren caps wouldn’t haunt every street corner.

Hours later, as the plane descended into the warm glow of a Spanish sunset, {{user}} felt more tired than he could remember. The walk through the small airport was a blur — luggage retrieved, taxi hailed, the familiar drive through narrow streets to his parents’ quiet home.

He had barely stepped inside, suitcase still in hand, when his phone began to buzz with an incoming call. The name flashing across the screen made his breath catch.

Lando.