You were just being polite. Or playful. The guy was charming — a PR guy from Mercedes, all smiles and champagne flutes. It didn’t mean anything.

But Lando was there. Watching. Leaning against the bar, pretending not to listen while your hand grazed someone else’s arm.

Later that night, back at the hotel, he doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t kiss you. Just pulls off his shirt, silent.

You cross your arms.

“Do you flirt with everybody, or just the ones I can see?” he say, looking outside.