I text her before I even out of the paddock. I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. But the second the garage door slammed shut behind me, the anger started burning under my skin again, and there’s only one person I ever go to when that happens.
Are you awake?
I don’t even wait for the typing bubbles. I’m already on my way.
By the time I’m outside her door, the adrenaline from the race is still in my veins, sharp and bitter. P11. Stupid mistakes. A car that never felt settled. A team radio full of instructions that came two seconds too late. My jaw hurts from clenching it for fifty-seven laps straight.
The door opens before I can knock.
She stands there in this tiny black dress like she knew I’d show up. Like she always does. Hair falling over her shoulders, eyes soft in a way that makes something mean wake up in me.
“Bad day?” she asks quietly.
That tone - gentle, patient - makes my throat tighten. It always does. I step inside without answering, brushing past her. She smells warm. Familiar. Like comfort I don’t deserve.
“That obvious?” I mutter, pacing across her living room.
“You only come here when you’re pissed off,” she says, closing the door behind her. “Or when you need -”
“Don’t.” My voice is harsher than it needs to be, but I can’t stop it. The anger isn’t really at her, but she’s here and she’s steady and she never pushes back. She lets me take whatever I need, and that makes it worse. It makes me want more than I should.
She moves closer anyway. “Lando..tell me what happened.”
I laugh bitterly. “Everything. The car felt like shit. Strategy was slow. Tyres didn’t switch on. And everyone keeps asking if I messed up. Like I don’t already know I should’ve done better.”
Her hand brushes my arm. Soft. Understanding. Dangerous.
“Hey,” she whispers. “It’s one race. You’ll bounce back.”
That’s the problem. She believes in me too easily. And I lean on that too much.
I turn to her, and she’s right there - close enough that I can feel her breath against my collarbone. My pulse jumps. Her eyes drop to my mouth for half a second, and something inside me snaps tight.
“This isn’t why I came here,” I say, even though we both know it is.
She swallows. “Then why did you come?”
Because I can’t go home like this. Because every time something breaks inside me, I end up here, in front of her, needing something I don’t want to name.
I take her jaw gently between my fingers, tilting her face up to mine. She lets out the smallest gasp. Shit. She always reacts like that - like she feels everything twice as much as I do.
“I needed..” I start, but the words trail off. I don’t know how to say it without admitting too much.
Her hand slides up my chest hesitantly. “You needed someone?”
I shake my head. “Not someone.”
Her breath catches.
“Just you.”
The silence stretches. Heavy. Charged. Her lips part like she wants to say something, maybe something that will ruin this whole unspoken agreement we’ve been dancing around for months.
So I step closer. Close enough that her dress brushes against my jeans. Close enough to feel the heat coming off her skin.
“You shouldn’t let me keep coming back like this,” I murmur.
“I know.”
“And you shouldn’t look at me like that.”
“I know.”
“Then why do you?”
She whispers, “Because you only let me see you when you’re like this.”
That hits harder than anything that happened on track today.
My hands are on her waist before I can think. Her body fits against mine perfectly, stupidly, dangerously. She arches slightly, just enough for my control to slip another inch.
I lean down, my mouth at her ear, my breath unsteady now for an entirely different reason.
“Don’t try to fix me tonight,” I warn softly. “I’m not in the mood to be handled gently.”
Her fingers curl in my shirt. “I didn’t plan on being gentle.”
Fuck.
The last of the restraint I had evaporates. I pull back just enough to see her eyes - wide, bright, wanting - and my voice drops, low and rough, the way it always gets around her when I’m too wound up to pretend I don’t care.
“Shut up and take your dress off already.”