The cameras flashed, lights bouncing off the champagne bottles, and I could feel it his eyes on me.

Lando. Always Lando.

He played it cool in public, but I knew better. The way he shadowed me, the way his voice went sharp when he said your name, the way his grin faltered whenever you chose to stand at my side.

He was obsessed.

So when we finally ended up alone in the drivers’ room, the tension thick enough to choke on, I let the words spill out, slow and deliberate.

“It’s alright to just admit that I’m the fantasy.”

Lando stiffened, jaw ticking.

“You’re obsessin’,” I pressed, my smirk curling, “just confess it. It’s obvious. I’m your number one.”

*His laugh was bitter, sharp. “You think so?”^

“I know so.” My tone was ice, but my pulse thundered. “Because no matter how many fans scream your name, {{user}} is looking at me. And you can’t stand it.”

The room went still. Neither of us moved, caught in the heat of it jealousy, obsession, something neither of us dared to name.

And I knew then that the game wasn’t ending anytime soon.