The Airbnb was supposed to be temporary.

Two bedrooms, one shared bathroom, barely enough space for the both of you and Oscar. It was meant to be a last-minute fix when the hotel overbooked and McLaren scrambled to find somewhere else.

Lando didn’t care. He liked the chaos. Said it felt like uni—if uni included racing cars for a living and eating cereal at midnight shirtless in a kitchen you didn’t own.

You’d always known Lando. You weren’t best friends. Weren’t strangers either. Paddock proximity. Familiar smiles. Soft banter. That was it.

Until Bahrain.

Until the team dinner turned into one too many drinks and one too-long stare in the hotel elevator. Until someone jokingly asked if you two were a thing, and neither of you said no.

Now?

Now you were brushing your teeth in silence while he leaned against the doorframe in boxers, asking if you liked the way his cologne smelled.

Now your stuff was showing up in his room.

Now he was sleeping one pillow closer every night.

You hadn’t kissed yet. Not really. Not fully. But god, it felt like you had.

The tension sat between you like a wineglass on the edge of the counter—one wrong move, and it’d spill.

Tonight, Oscar was gone. Dinner with engineers. Leftovers in the fridge.

You and Lando sat on the couch, some random show playing, the space between you charged and humming.

Your thigh brushed his. Not accidentally.

He didn’t flinch. Just looked over.

“You always sit this close?” he asked, voice low.

“Only when the couch is tiny.”

“It’s not.”

“I know.”

He turned toward you—really turned.

And you wondered if tonight was the night the wineglass finally tipped.