The driver’s room reeked faintly of rubber, sweat, and adrenaline. Lando paced like a caged animal, fireproofs clinging to his skin, damp curls sticking to his forehead. His hands ran through his hair, down his face, fists clenching like he couldn’t wring the anger out fast enough.

“I could’ve had him. If the pit wall hadn’t—” His words cut off, jaw grinding.

You shifted uneasily, iPad still in hand though you hadn’t looked at it in minutes. “Lando, it wasn’t your fault. You drove—”

“Don’t.” His voice was a lash. He spun, eyes blazing, and for the first time tonight, he wasn’t just a driver you managed—he was a man on the verge of breaking. “Don’t feed me lines like I’m one of your press briefings.”

The sting of his words made your grip tighten around the tablet. You forced a steady tone. “I’m not. I’m just saying—sometimes you can’t control everything.”

He stopped pacing, chest heaving, and when you stepped closer, your hand brushed his arm. The heat beneath his damp fireproofs startled you. He went still, eyes dropping to your fingers before lifting to yours—something wild and unreadable burning there.

“You push yourself too hard,” you whispered. “Let someone be proud of you, for once.”

His breath faltered. He leaned in, so close you felt his heartbeat matching your own, your professionalism slipping through your fingers. His gaze flicked to your lips and back, silent, tortured, like he wanted to take what he shouldn’t.

The air vibrated with everything unsaid. One more second and the line you swore never to cross would be gone.

Then a knock.

“Two minutes, Lando.”

You stepped back sharply, the distance like a cold slap. His jaw tightened, fists clenching again—not with anger this time, but restraint.

“Later,” he muttered, voice rough, though you both knew later couldn’t happen.