The party in Abu Dhabi was chaos flashing lights, thundering music, drivers with champagne bottles as if they were extensions of their arms. Everyone was riding the high of McLaren clinching the Constructors, and somehow you’d been dragged to the center of it all.

“Finally! You’re not hiding behind a laptop for once,” Lando shouted over the music, handing you a drink before you could protest. His curls were damp with sweat, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to make your heart do something inconvenient.

You laughed, trying to remind yourself this was your driver, not some guy at a club. “Someone has to make sure you don’t embarrass yourself.”

“Too late,” he grinned, and then he was pulling you onto the dance floor, his hand warm on your waist, his eyes far too focused for someone supposedly tipsy.

The night blurred shots, laughter, his arm slung around your shoulders as he leaned close to tell you stories you’d probably heard a hundred times.

And then blackout.

You woke up to blinding sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling hotel windows. Your head pounded, your dress from the night before still clinging to you. And beside you, very much awake, was Lando.

“Morning,” he said, voice rough, eyes dancing with amusement as he passed you a bottle of water. “You sleep like a rock. I tried to kick you out but you refused to move.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands. “Please tell me I didn’t—”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Relax. Nothing happened. I’m not that kind of teammate.” Then, after a beat, softer: “Though, I wouldn’t have minded if it did.”

You froze, and when you dared to look at him, he was watching you with an intensity that made the room feel hotter than the desert outside.

The Constructors’ trophy wasn’t the only thing that had been won that night.