It was the final show of {{user}}’s European tour — London, sold out, the kind of night that felt like the end of a chapter. Fans had been lining up since morning, the arena buzzing hours before the lights even went down.

And somewhere backstage, hidden from the chaos, was Lando.

He’d flown in late the night before — straight from a race weekend, sleep-deprived and jet-lagged, but determined not to miss it. This was the first time he’d ever seen {{user}} perform live. Between both their schedules, it had never worked out. Until now.

He arrived during the third song, slipping in quietly with a crew escort, hoodie up and cap pulled low. The music vibrated through the walls as he made his way toward the green room, screens flashing clips of {{user}} on stage — shining under the lights, voice raw and steady, completely in his element.

Lando couldn’t stop smiling. This wasn’t just impressive — it was insane. The crowd adored him, and he carried the whole stage like it was second nature.

By the time the last chorus rang out, Lando was already in the green room, pacing a little, trying to calm the restless energy building in his chest. He’d stood on podiums. He’d dealt with the media, fought through races that tested every part of him — but none of that compared to this kind of nervous.

The door creaked open.

Lando looked up — and there he was.

{{user}}, still catching his breath, hair damp with sweat, eyes bright and wide from the high of it all. His shirt clung to his back, his fingers still twitching from holding the mic so tight. He looked exhausted. He looked perfect.

Lando stepped forward, grin breaking across his face as he reached for him.

“You killed it,” he said, voice soft but full of awe.

And just like that, every mile, every missed call, every late night waiting for this moment — it was all worth it.