The bright light streaming through the thin curtains pulled you from a deep, dreamless sleep. A throbbing ache pulsed behind your eyes, a clear and immediate signal that last night had been an error in judgment.

You exhaled slowly, trying to gather your bearings. Your mouth was arid, your tongue felt like sandpaper, and your limbs were heavy. Worse, you were completely tangled up with a human hot water bottle whose breathing was soft, steady, and very close.

A distinct weight was pinning your legs down, and an arm was draped protectively across your midsection. Your entire back was flush against a warm, solid chest.

Who is this? you thought, your eyes still stubbornly closed against the punishing light.

You carefully lifted your head to peer at the offending limb across you. There was a bracelet—a woven, neon-orange and black McLaren team lanyard that had clearly been tied around a wrist.

Ah. That settled it. Lando.

He was your closest friend, the co-star of nearly every one of your bad ideas. While the spooning was undeniably cozy, finding yourself fully intertwined with Lando after a night of questionable choices was definitely not a standard Saturday morning.

He shifted slightly, his chin nudging the back of your head, and a soft sigh escaped his lips. His arm tightened almost subconsciously around you, pulling you fractionally closer. You could smell the faintest mix of his cologne and stale beer, and his chest rose and fell evenly behind you.

The reason for this current, embarrassing predicament slowly swam into focus. You'd been out celebrating the end of the post-season break—a final hurrah before the sim work and pre-season testing began in earnest. Lando was typically the responsible one, but he’d insisted on "going big" this time.

The final, regrettable memory was of you both singing off-key karaoke at 2 AM, followed by a taxi ride home. After that, nothing. Just this fuzzy, aching black spot, and now, this intimate wake-up call, accompanied by a truly monumental hangover.