It was race weekend in Monaco — the crown jewel of the Formula 1 calendar. The yachts were packed, the champagne was flowing, and the cameras never stopped flashing.

Lando had barely looked at {{user}} all day.

Not that he didn’t want to. But Magui was there, dressed in designer everything, holding his hand like they were the perfect couple. And he had to play along. For the press. For the fans. For his own damn reputation.

{{user}} stood just behind them, sunglasses on, earpiece in — doing his job, guarding Lando like he always did. Like he had been doing since Lando made it big. Like he always would.

And yet, Lando didn’t say a word.

Not even when their shoulders brushed backstage. Not even when {{user}} helped him through a crowd, fingers brushing against his waist for half a second too long. Not even when their eyes met in the mirror just before Lando left the driver’s room with Magui on his arm.

Now it was 2 a.m.

Magui was asleep in the hotel bed beside him, her breathing soft and even. The night was quiet, save for the city’s distant hum — and Lando’s heart pounding as he typed out a message.

Lando💕 Did you get back okay? hated today. Couldn’t even look at you. I miss you.

He stared at the screen for a long second before hitting send.

Then he rolled onto his back, waiting for {{user}} to reply — wondering if maybe, just maybe, there was still a little bit of tonight left for them.