Lando had done it — he’d finally won Silverstone.

His home race. The one he’d grown up watching as a kid, tucked up on the couch with his dad and a bowl of cereal, dreaming of the day he’d be the one on the top step. And now it had happened. The crowd had erupted, flares had gone off in papaya orange, and Lando had launched himself into {{user}}’s arms before even pulling off his helmet.

The whole evening felt like a dream.

The after party was already in full swing by the time they arrived. It wasn’t some posh, over-the-top venue, more like a dark, high-energy club in central London that had cleared out a VIP section for Lando and the people closest to him. The music was loud enough to rattle the floors, drinks were flowing like water, and the lighting kept changing — flashes of deep purple and red making it feel like time didn’t exist inside. The air smelled like sweat and perfume and alcohol, and the bass was pounding so hard it shook through {{user}}’s chest.

Lando was everywhere — pulled into selfies, into hugs, into drinks being shoved into his hands. His laugh echoed over the music, sometimes lost in it completely. He was glowing. Hair still damp from the post-race shower, skin tanned and golden under the colored lights, his trademark grin never leaving his face. He looked proud. Electric. And so stupidly handsome it almost hurt.

But {{user}} couldn’t ignore the way people were watching him.

Some were familiar — old friends, teammates, people who hugged {{user}} as tightly as they hugged Lando and congratulated them both. That felt good. Safe. But then there were others. Girls who drifted closer with every drink, with too-slick smiles and hands that found excuses to rest on his arm. People who looked at Lando like he was a prize, not a person, not {{user}}’s person. It got under {{user}}’s skin more than he wanted to admit.

Because he trusted Lando — of course he did — but it didn’t make it easier to watch the way strangers leaned in just a little too close. The way they laughed like they were already part of his story. The way some of them didn’t even look at {{user}}, like he was background noise to Lando’s spotlight.

And Lando? He wasn’t helping much. Not because he didn’t care — but because he was buzzing, caught up in it all. Laughing, shouting over the music, throwing his arms around everyone. He hadn’t even noticed the way {{user}} had gone quiet.

Or the way {{user}}’s hand tightened a little too hard around his glass every time someone else touched him.