He’s done a hundred interviews before. Maybe more. Quick questions, quick answers. Smile, nod, move on.
But not this one.
Not with you standing there — mic in hand, sunglasses perched on your head, like you hadn’t just walked straight into his world and flipped the axis.
You were covering for your best friend — she ran a motorsport channel, but you? You filmed travel, custom cars, bikes that hit 200 on empty desert roads, and the occasional shooting range feature. You lived fast, just… in a different direction.
And now here you were, asking him about his braking zone into Turn 1 with a smirk like you already knew the answer.
⸻
“Alright,” you say, steady voice, cool smile, “talk me through Q2 — clean lap or just got lucky?”
He opens his mouth to speak. Pauses. Stares.
“Lando?”
You arch a brow.
“You okay?”
He exhales, eyes dropping, then rising back to yours — slower this time. Less guarded. Less composed.
“Yeah, I’m… I’m good.” “It’s just—” he stops, voice softer, less sure of itself now. “It’s the way you look at me. It does something to me.”
You blink. And that smile — the one you’d been holding like a challenge — shifts, just a little.
“That right?”
He laughs, breathy, a bit wrecked. Rubs the back of his neck.
“Yeah. And it’s making it really hard to think about tire strategy right now.”
The camera is still rolling. Your producer is probably losing it. And Lando? He’s never looked more undone — or more interested.