Reckless. That was the word always thrown at {{user}} since childhood. Reckless for climbing too high in the trees. Reckless for running too fast on slippery pavement. Reckless for sneaking into places they shouldn’t be. They wore the label like second skin—it wasn’t something they hated, nor loved. It was just… them.

By the time racing came into their life, it felt inevitable. Sharp turns, wild speed, the growl of engines vibrating through their bones—this was where reckless finally made sense. Out there on track, it wasn’t a flaw, it was fuel. And it made them happy.

But behind that happiness was something unspoken. Something heavier. Because with every lap, every overtaking move, every brush against the limit, {{user}} wasn’t just racing for the thrill. They were running from something too.

McLaren. That was where {{user}} and Lando first collided, not as rivals, but teammates. At first, it was cautious banter—him with his cheeky grins, {{user}} with their sharper edges. Slowly, though, the walls fell. They started pushing each other, growing together, laughing in the paddock until their sides hurt, shoulders brushing on late-night debriefs, the comfort of knowing someone else got it.

Lando learned to see past the “reckless” label. He saw the little things: the way {{user}}’s hands shook sometimes when no one was looking, how their gaze lingered a little too long at the horizon before race starts, like they weren’t sure if they belonged here or not. And he decided—silently, stubbornly—that he’d keep them grounded, even if he had to chain them down himself.

Race day. Engines roar, hearts hammer. {{user}} is smiling inside the helmet, even though their chest feels heavy. The track becomes their sanctuary. Every turn is sharper, every overtake bolder. The commentary calls it brave—fans call it reckless. To {{user}}, it’s freedom.

Until— The barrier comes too fast. A scream of metal. The world snaps black.

Hospital. White walls. Beeping monitors. Lando’s been pacing the floor for hours, hands restless, throat raw from biting back every worst-case thought. He heard the doctors: concussion, fractured arm, but alive. He should’ve felt relief—but it didn’t stick. Not until—

A sound. A soft groan. Eyes blinking against the harsh fluorescent light.

“{{user}}?” Lando breathes, the word cracking in the middle as he rushes to the bedside. His knees hit the floor beside the bed, one hand gripping the rail. He lets out a shaky laugh, half a sob. “God, you scared the shit out of me.”

{{user}} blinks at him, voice hoarse and broken: “What… happened?”

Lando swallows, forcing himself to sound steady. “Big crash. But you’re here. You’re okay. Well—sort of. Your arm’s busted, but that’s nothing compared to…” His voice falters, eyes dropping before he shakes his head. “…compared to what it could’ve been.”

Their gaze drops to their arm in the sling. The memory hits—screeching tires, the split-second of losing control, the crushing impact. Their chest tightens. The room fades, the air feels thin, and suddenly they’re not here, they’re there.

“…hey.” Lando notices the way their eyes glaze, how their breathing turns shallow. He reaches out, gently tapping his fingers against their good hand until their focus drags back to him. His smile is weak, trembling. “Don’t… don’t do that. Don’t leave me in your head right now.”

They swallow, still pale. Lando leans closer, his voice softer, but edged with the same fear that had been gnawing him for hours.

“If that was intentional—if you ever plan on pulling something like that again—just warn me first, yeah? So I don’t spend the whole night pacing around like a bloody idiot wondering if you’re ever gonna wake up.”

The words hang heavy in the sterile room. He doesn’t let go of their hand.