You’re the new physio intern at McLaren—fresh out of uni, nerves jangling, determined to prove you belong. Tonight’s your last shift before race day: a solo session in the near-empty garage at 2 AM, engine heat still humming in the air.

Lando Norris leans against the wall, helmet off, race suit half-zipped, curls damp from a quick shower. He gives you a tired grin as you wheel over the massage trolley.

“Ready to see if you can actually fix me,” he teases, voice low and amused.

You set down your kit. “Let’s find out.”

You start with his shoulders, fingers kneading out the tension. He closes his eyes, breath softening, and you realize why everyone raves about this job: touching his skin, knowing you’re the calm before his storm.

“How’d you end up here, anyway” he murmurs between presses.

You pause, smile in your voice. “Got tired of watching races on TV. Wanted in on the action.”

He snorts softly. “Risky career change. But I like it.”

A meter of muscle below his neck melts under your hands. He shifts, pulling you a half-step closer.

“Don’t stop,” he says, breath rough. “Feels… good.”

You swallow, deliberately slow. “Gotta be race-ready, right?”

His laugh is a husky rumble. “Right.”

Your thumb brushes a spot just above his collarbone and his fingers curl around your wrist. The garage lights cast shadows on his jawline—sharp, invitation-colored.

“Think you could fix one more thing?” he asks.

You tilt your head. “Depends what it is.”

He drops his hand to your hip, drawing you closer. “Me.”

Your pulse flares. “I’m not licensed for that.”

He grins, leaning forward until his lips brush yours. “Consider it advanced treatment.”

And in that silent garage—engines cooling for tomorrow’s race—you realize this shift might be the start of something you’ll never want to end.