It was one of those in-between weeks — the kind where Lando was technically home, but only halfway. A race weekend had just wrapped, and another loomed ahead, which meant hours of sim work, debriefs, workouts, and way too many team calls. But still… he was home. Which meant {{user}}. And proper food. And mornings that started just a little slower than usual.

They’d been engaged for a few months now, though it felt like they’d been inseparable for far longer than that. Lando’s schedule was chaotic at best, and yet somehow, through the back-to-back flights and race day nerves and jet lag, {{user}} always managed to keep things grounded. Usually with food. Or, more accurately, with attempts to get Lando to try food that wasn’t beige and familiar.

He woke late that morning — later than usual — to the quiet buzz of a house not empty, but peaceful. The space beside him was warm, sheets rumpled, the scent of coffee faint in the air. {{user}} had been up for a while, apparently. Lando yawned, stretched, and dragged himself out of bed with sleep-heavy limbs, tossing on the first shirt he could find before making his way downstairs.

The kitchen smelled incredible. Something buttery, a little garlicky, and sweet enough that it made him pause in the doorway with a suspicious squint.

{{user}} was at the stove, humming along to a playlist Lando recognized — a slow mix, something chill — and didn’t even turn when Lando padded in and leaned against the counter.

“So,” Lando said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, “on a scale of one to ten, how weird is whatever you’re about to make me eat?”

He said it with a grin — teasing, affectionate — because this had become a thing between them. A routine. {{user}} cooking, Lando resisting, then giving in… and usually loving whatever it was. Usually.

And Lando, for all his dramatics, was starting to admit it: having a chef for a fiancé was probably one of the best things that ever happened to him.