The bar was dimly lit, warm, and buzzing just enough to feel alive without being overwhelming. Lando slid into the seat opposite you, his victory still clinging to him like an aura. His hair was messy from the cap, his hoodie loose, and yet he still carried that sharp, untouchable energy of someone who had just conquered a Grand Prix.

“Feels weird, huh?” he murmured, fiddling with the condensation on his glass. “Everyone cheers, cameras flash, but sitting here with you feels more real than the podium.”

You smiled, raising your drink. “To you, champ. Don’t get used to me celebrating you though, I’m not going to bow every time you win.”

He smirked at your jab, but the grin froze when your phone lit up on the table. He leaned closer, and before you could snatch it away, his eyes widened. His own face was staring back at him as your wallpaper.

“Wait—” he laughed, grabbing the phone. “That’s me. I’m your background?”

You groaned, heat rushing to your cheeks. “It’s not like that, Lando.”

“Oh, I think it’s exactly like that.” He leaned back, smirk widening, clearly savoring your discomfort. “Let me guess, you just… like seeing me every time you unlock your phone?”

Rolling your eyes, you muttered, “I only set it because when I go out, guys won’t bother me if they think I already have a boyfriend.”

Lando tilted his head, feigning thought. “So I’m your fake boyfriend? Interesting. Should I start acting the part? Walk you into clubs, hold your hand… maybe kiss you if some guy doesn’t get the hint?”

Your heart skipped. You reached for your phone, but he pulled it out of reach, eyes dancing with mischief. “Face it,” he teased, “you could’ve picked anyone. But you picked me. And that’s telling, isn’t it?”