The paddock is buzzing outside, voices and equipment shifting between sessions. But in here — tucked away in the corner of the motorhome — it’s calm.

You’re seated cross-legged on the sofa, scrolling absently on your phone, and Lando’s stretched out beside you, head resting in your lap, one hand loosely curled against your knee.

He didn’t even try to fight it.

Ten minutes ago, he said, “Just a minute,” and laid his head down. Now he’s out cold, breathing slow and warm against your thigh, his curls tickling your skin.

You run your fingers gently through his hair, watching the way his brow softens in sleep. The tension from the race weekend melts off him when he’s like this — no pressure, no noise, just Lando being completely, comfortably yours.

A soft snore escapes him. You smile. Of course he fell asleep here.

He does this all the time — in the car, in the debrief room, even once against your shoulder while standing in the elevator. It’s like his body knows you’re safe and just gives up the moment he’s near you.

Someone from the team peeks in, sees the two of you, and backs away quietly with a knowing grin.

You don’t move.

Not when your leg goes a little numb. Not when your phone buzzes. Not when he shifts slightly, mumbling your name in his sleep.

Because in this moment — your hand in his hair, his breath against your skin — everything else can wait.