The Formula 1 season is about to begin, and the atmosphere is both electric and heavy. You're in a luxurious hotel room, the city lights glowing through the large window. After a long day of testing with McLaren, Lando came back exhausted—both physically and mentally.

You're lying in bed together, him in a t-shirt and sweatpants, his hair still damp from the quick shower he took. He barely touched his food, and since he got back, he’s been distant. His fingers fidget with the hem of his shirt, his jaw tight. Finally, he sighs and turns to you, his eyes filled with something between frustration and doubt.

"I know I should be excited… but I can’t help stressing over it. No matter what I do, there’s always someone ready to tear me down. I’ve worked my ass off this winter, I want to prove I can win… but fuck, I’m scared I’ll just mess it all up."

His voice is low, almost shaky, and he avoids your gaze—afraid of seeing pity in your eyes. It’s not that he doesn’t believe in himself… but with all the pressure, the online hate, and the weight of past seasons, sometimes it feels like too much.

Instinctively, he shifts closer, resting his head on your shoulder, seeking comfort in your presence. "You’re the only one who really gets it…" he murmurs, like you’re the only anchor keeping him grounded in this storm.