cherrypickedchaos @cherrypickedchaos - Tumblr Blog

Only When It Hurts

They never call it anything. They circle each other through hotel corridors, paddock shadows, late flights and four a.m. knocks on the door, stuck somewhere between bad habit and something that hurts too much to quit.

Genre: Emotional romance, toxic situationship, ambient longing, situationship-to-something, high-intensity low-clarity, late-night closeness, motorsport backdrop NSFW Warning: 18+ ‒ explicit sex, oral, unprotected sex, late-night hookups, jealousy, rough edges, emotionally loaded intimacy, hurt/comfort in bed, messy feelings with no tidy resolution Inspired by: Candy by Paolo Nutini

🏎️📸🏎️📸🏎️📸🏎️📸🏎️📸🏎️📸🏎️📸🏎️📸

Barcelona

Elena’s hotel room felt smaller after a race. Equipment covered every flat surface. Lenses on the desk, a camera on the chair, memory cards scattered beside an empty paper cup that had once held coffee strong enough to keep her awake through three airports. The air held a mix of stale air conditioning and the faint metallic tang that seemed to cling to her skin after a day in the paddock.

She sat cross-legged on the bed, laptop balanced against her thighs, glow washing her face in cold light. Frame after frame flicked past. Mechanics frozen in frantic movement. Tyres hanging midair. Lando walking down the paddock with his race suit half open, jaw set, eyes hard.

She paused on one shot. He stood in the garage, helmet off, sweat-dark curls flattened to his forehead. A mechanic’s hand rested on his shoulder, and his eyes looked past the camera, expression empty in a way that always hit her harder than anger.

Her thumb hovered over the trackpad for a second longer, then she moved on. Select, reject, flag, export. Every movement precise, muscle memory from years of editing at stupid hours.

Her phone buzzed near the pillows. She ignored it for a moment, finishing a crop. A shot of the cars launching off the line, orange and papaya streaking forward. She saved, then reached back and dug for the phone without looking at the screen.

When she did, her chest tightened.

Lando You back in yet?

Her hotel clock read 00:41. She swallowed and watched the blinking cursor in the reply box.

Her fingers typed, erased, hovered. Yeah. Working.

She stared at the single word. Backspaced again. The urge rose to send something familiar. A joke, a soft jab about him finding her first thing after a bad day. She locked the phone instead and set it face down beside her.

The laptop fan whirred louder, a steady hum in the quiet. Through the thin walls came faint sounds from other rooms: a laugh, water running, a door closing. The race weekend still vibrated through her nerves, a kind of phantom noise that lingered long after the last engine shut off.

Three short taps sounded against the door.

Her head snapped up. Her throat went dry. For a heartbeat she sat frozen, fingers pressed against the laptop casing. Three more taps followed, barely louder than the first. She knew that knock. Small, quick, no rhythm, as if the person on the other side worried about waking someone, even in a hotel built for chaos.

She slid off the bed, ankles cracking when her feet hit the carpet. Her heart had started a slow, heavy pound that she felt behind her ribs, like it knew who waited in the hall before her brain caught up.

The peephole framed a familiar figure, blurry through the fisheye glass. Cap pulled low, hoodie up, shoulders slightly slumped, orange trim peeking at the neckline. She opened the door.

Lando stood there, hands in his pockets, race kit swapped for joggers and a soft grey hoodie that had seen better days. His hair stuck out in flattened curls under the cap. Under the dim corridor light, the dark circles under his eyes looked deeper than they had on camera.

“Hey,” he said.

The single word fell in that quiet way he used when the showman persona had dropped somewhere between the paddock and the lift. He looked smaller out here, in socks and sneakers, without the team uniform, without the cameras. “Hey,” Elena answered, fingers tight around the edge of the door. “You lose your room again?” His mouth curled, some faint version of a smile. “Would be a new low.” She stepped back and tilted her head toward the room. “Come in before someone sees you standing there looking guilty.”

He slipped past her, the familiar brush of his shoulder against hers as he moved through the doorway. She closed the door with care, the soft click somehow loud inside the room.

He took in the chaos with a quick glance. Open luggage in the corner, camera sat on the chair, cables everywhere. On the desk, her clothes draped beside a row of energy drink cans like a tiny graveyard.

“You been working this whole time?” he asked. “Since I got in.” She moved around him, scooping memory cards into a little pile. “I like to cull while everything still feels loud. Helps.”

He hummed, then dropped onto the bed without waiting for an invitation. He landed flat on his back, arms spread, trainers hanging off the edge. The mattress dipped, sending a ripple toward her laptop.

“Careful,” she said. “That’s the only thing in this room worth more than your watch.” “Debatable,” he murmured, eyes on the ceiling.

She watched him for a second. Far from the bright, camera-ready grin, his face now carried a kind of sagging exhaustion. His cheeks carried faint red marks where the helmet padding had pressed. A small crease sat between his brows, as if even his relaxed muscles held tension.

“How bad does it feel?” she asked, voice softer.

He turned his head on the pillow to look at her. For a moment, annoyance flared across his expression, a habitual defence. Then it drained away, leaving something raw.

“Feels like I did everything right and everything still went wrong,” he said. “Feels like I spent the whole race shouting underwater.”

That image slid under her ribs. She sat at the foot of the bed, cross-legged, laptop pushed to the side.

“You still brought it home,” she said. “Could have ended in the wall.” He exhaled sharply. “Would have at least matched how it felt inside my head.”

She reached behind her, tugged the pillow from beside him and lightly smacked his arm with it. He flinched, then finally gave a small, real laugh.

“You are very dramatic for someone who gets paid to go fast in twisty circles,” she said. “Fast in circles with everyone watching every tiny mistake from twelve camera angles.”

His eyes slid back to the ceiling. His sneaker tapped a short, restless pattern against the mattress edge. The silence between them stretched, filled with distant elevator dings and muted voices from the corridor.

He turned his head again, studying her face.

“Show me,” he said. “What?” “The photos. From today. I barely remember half of it. Feels like a blur.” He hesitated, then added, “Your version usually looks better than mine.”

She rolled her eyes, stood, and lifted the laptop, bringing it closer. He shifted up against the headboard, rearranging the pillows. She sat beside him, their shoulders almost touching, the laptop balanced between them.

As she flipped through the shots, his hand brushed her knee, casual as if he needed an anchor. She felt the warmth through the thin fabric of her leggings.

The start. Cars bunched together, heat haze rising from the track. His car side by side with a red Ferrari, sparks bursting under the floor. He watched in silence, chest rising and falling with slow, controlled breaths.

“You make it look like art,” he said quietly. “It is art.” She nudged him with her shoulder. “Extremely loud, expensive art.”

She skipped forward. Pit stop. Mechanics swarming his car, blurs of motion and colour. One frame held him mid-turn into the box, visor down, every line in his body set with focus.

“That one,” he said. “Send me that.” “Sure.”

Then the cooldown lap, him pulling off his gloves, chest heaving, head tipped back. She almost scrolled past the image of him climbing out of the car, curls half visible as he gritted his teeth, jaw clenched.

“Go back,” he murmured.

She did. The photo filled the screen. The overhead garage lights cast hard shadows across his face. His mouth drew tight, eyes dark and flat as if no one stood near enough to see through it. He watched himself in silence.

“I look angry,” he said. “You felt angry.” “Yeah.” His thumb tapped against his thigh. “Look empty too.”

Elena studied the frame. That same hollow look had caught her attention while editing earlier, the way his eyes seemed to stare through everything around him.

“You were empty,” she said gently. “For a bit.”

He let out a breath through his nose, slow and tired.

“You always say it like a fact, never like a judgement,” he murmured. “Maybe because I run out of room for judgement around turn twelve of every race,” she replied. “Kind of busy.”

That pulled a more solid smile from him, faint lines forming at the corners of his eyes. The laptop balanced precariously as he shifted sideways, shoulder pressing into hers. His arm brushed along the outside of her thigh. That familiar, heavy awareness sparked low in her stomach, the way it always did when he sat too close in small rooms.

“How many races have we done now?” he asked. “In general? Or where you invaded my hotel room after?” She tilted her head in mock thought. “Feels like a series by this point.” He made a face, then looked at her carefully. “You say that like it bothers you.” “Because it does a little,” she said.

His brows drew together.

“I mean,” she added quickly, “my room keeps becoming your therapy office. I should start charging.” “Pretty sure I pay you in world class company,” he said, his tone light, eyes trying to follow.

She gave him a flat look. He held her gaze for only a second before glancing away. The truth sat between them, familiar and heavy. He came to her room when races went badly, when the world dug claws into him, when cameras and sponsors demanded a version of him that smiled no matter the outcome. He came when the noise in his head blurred into something sharp enough to hurt.

He came here.

Her thumb traced the laptops edge, back and forth.

“You look tired,” she said. “Feel worse than I look.” “When did you last sleep properly?” “What day is it today?” She snorted. “See. Dramatic.”

He dropped his head back against the headboard and closed his eyes for a moment. The muscles in his jaw worked, like he held words between his teeth and could not decide whether to release them.

“I kept thinking about turn three,” he said finally. “Could have pushed more. Could have backed off. Either way I replay it until everything else blurs. Feels like that every corner, every lap. Then I get here and suddenly the whole thing gets smaller.” “Here?” she asked. He turned his head toward her, eyes meeting hers. “Yeah. Here.”

The space between them felt charged, more than the simple inches of mattress and sheets. The laptop fan hummed loudly, then quieted again.

He reached forward, careful movement as if wary she might move away, and slid the laptop off their legs onto the bedside table. The room dimmed once the screen’s glow vanished, leaving only the bedside lamp with its harsh yellow halo.

He watched her for a heartbeat, eyes flicking from her mouth to her eyes, searching for a barrier that never came. “Lena,” he said softly. Her name in his mouth always sounded different. Less like a syllable, more like a question.

His fingers brushed her wrist, thumb trailing over the small veins beneath the skin. That simple contact carried a history of other nights, other hotel rooms, other moments where words had thinned and touch had taken over.

She swallowed, throat tight. “You know this is a pattern,” she said quietly.

He tipped his head, frowning slightly.

“You know it,” she added. “Bad day, late night, my door.” “You want me to leave?” he asked.

His voice had no challenge in it, only a low uncertainty that tugged at her chest. Her body answered before her mind could form a sentence. She shook her head, a small movement. He nodded, a tiny shift of relief across his features, and leaned in.

He kissed her like he thought she might pull away, slow at first, steady pressure, tasting faintly of sugar and something chemical, probably the neon-blue drink he swiped from the garage fridge. His hand slid up her side, fingers threading into her hair, then curling at the nape of her neck.

That first breath he let out against her mouth, she knew it. It was the one he gave every time, when the noise finally dropped and she was the only thing left. The kiss deepened. Urgency spilled out fast, too fast. The kind that came from long weeks with no relief, only cameras, only travel, only too much of everything except this.

She didn’t feel the laptop slide off the bed. Didn’t care. His hands were on her waist, pulling her in. When his back hit the pillows, she followed without hesitation. His knee pressed between her thighs, weight solid beneath her, hoodie dragging over her stomach where her shirt had ridden up.

Elena hooked her fingers in the fabric at his shoulders, knuckles pushing into tense muscle. He was still holding the race under his skin. Every touch said it. Every sigh against her mouth carried the tail end of frustration, of adrenaline, of too many laps gone wrong.

He flipped her over in one smooth motion, grinning against her lips when she gasped. His hands ran up her thighs, slow but deliberate, until she could wrap her legs around him. One hand slid under her shirt. When his thumb brushed across the curve of her breast and circled the hardened peak, she let out a low moan.

He groaned into her mouth and kissed her harder, tongue stroking hers like he couldn’t get close enough. She arched into it. Every nerve lit up.

His lips left hers only to trail along her jaw, then down her neck. She tilted her head to give him room. He kissed lower, open-mouthed, hungry, dragging her top and bra strap aside until her shoulder was bare beneath him. His breath washed warm across her skin. She caught the shift in his breathing, he was watching her now, mouth hovering, eyes fixed.

He dragged his teeth across her shoulder, slow and careful. When she angled her hips toward him, he growled low, fingers already slipping into the waistband of her trousers. He pushed past fabric and underwear at once, and when his fingers found how wet she was, his head dropped forward with a sound that didn’t try to hide anything.

He slid two fingers inside her, curling them without hesitation, knowing exactly where. Elena choked out a breath and pressed herself down onto his hand, hips grinding, chasing the pressure. He pushed deeper, and her legs tensed around him.

Her orgasm hit fast. She barely got a warning, a hard, tight twist deep inside, before everything snapped. Her head fell back against the pillow, and she writhed against his hand, gasping, clenching around him, trying to drag him closer even as her body shook.

Then his hand left her. She blinked, dazed, trying to focus.

“Wait,” she panted. “Why’d you stop?”

She didn’t hear the answer. What she felt was the sharp tug of her underwear being moved aside, the rough drag of his joggers shoved down, and then him, not his hand, but him, pushing inside, thick and hard and already too much in the best possible way.

Lando groaned low in his throat as he sank into her, inch by inch, her walls clenching around him like she couldn’t let go even if she tried. He thrust again, harder this time, and her back arched off the mattress.

She grinned through the haze, biting her bottom lip as she felt his whole body tighten above her. The sound he made, a short, guttural moan, hit low in her stomach. He pulled back, then drove into her again, deeper, faster. She cried out, fingers sliding into his hair and yanking. He cursed under his breath, mouth dragging down to hers, swallowing every sound she made.

Each thrust drove the air out of her lungs. He moved like he had something to prove. She clawed at his back, her nails dragging lines into his skin, half anchoring herself, half begging him to keep going. He didn’t slow. Didn’t falter. Every time she moaned, he fucked her harder.

“Lando,” she gasped. His name spilled from her lips like a reflex, like muscle memory. A prayer with no holiness to it, only heat, only plea.

Her second climax built sharper, rougher than the first. It tore through her as he kissed her again, his mouth crushing hers to muffle her scream. She clenched around him, pulse stuttering, body trembling beneath his.

He followed her over the edge seconds later, hips jerking as he buried himself deep and came with a sound that shook something loose in her chest. One final snap of his hips, and he held her tight, forehead pressed to hers, breath ragged.

Neither of them moved right away. His hand stayed at her waist, fingers twitching once, then tightening as if he meant to keep her there.

Later, the room held a heavy quiet, the kind that followed storms. The lamp still glowed on the bedside table, casting a pool of light that caught in the sweat on his shoulder. The sheets lay tangled around their legs. Her heartbeat had slowed, no longer a hard drum at the base of her throat, only a warm pulse in her chest and fingertips.

He lay beside her on his side, head on her pillow, curls flattened. One arm lay across her stomach, fingers curled lightly against her hip as if even in half-sleep he feared she might slip away. His breathing had evened out, soft and steady, lips parted. Without the usual nervous energy, he looked younger, edges softened, boyish in a way the helmet cameras never showed.

Elena stared at the ceiling. A faint crack ran across the plaster above the bed, a jagged line that caught her attention every time she stayed in this hotel. She followed it with her eyes while his thumb twitched against her side, small, unconscious movements that kept announcing his presence in the dark.

Her phone lay on the bedside table, screen blank. Messages from clients waited somewhere inside that dark rectangle, requests for edits, timelines, payment confirmations. Her whole other life, paused for a race weekend, sat in that thin piece of glass.

His arm held her to the mattress with a gentle weight. She turned her head to look at him. In sleep his brows had relaxed, the worry line between them smoothed away. A faint red mark from his balaclava clung to his cheek. Her chest ached with a mix of affection and something heavier that she rarely allowed a name.

Her hand lifted, almost without permission, and she brushed a damp curl away from his forehead. He shifted closer without waking, breath warming her collarbone.

She had told Nora that this thing between them stayed casual. She had repeated that claim to herself often, as if practice could turn it into reality. Friends, with bad timing and worse boundaries. Nothing more.

Yet he kept arriving like this, hollow from the day, eyes searching her face for something he struggled to find anywhere else. He filled her small, anonymous hotel room with the weight of his career, his fears, his hunger for a softness he rarely allowed himself. She kept opening the door.

His arm tightened once, reflexive, before slackening again.

A pale strip of light edged around the curtains. Morning inched closer, dragging the next day along behind it, with media sessions, debriefs, flights. At some point he would wake, remember the world outside this room, climb back into his role.

She wondered if he would stay long enough to see real daylight on her skin or if habit would push him toward the door before that.

Her eyes drifted closed for a while, her body finally allowing itself to sink into the mattress. Sleep came in shallow waves, broken by distant sounds of doors and rolling suitcases, the hotel gradually stirring to life.

When she surfaced again, the light behind the curtains had shifted from grey to pale gold.

Lando sat on the edge of the bed, pulling his hoodie over his head. His race kit from earlier lay folded on the chair, replaced by travel clothes. Small details had already slipped back into place: team wristband, watch, phone on the nightstand within easy reach.

He glanced back when he sensed her watching. “Sorry,” he said quietly. “Tried to move without waking you.” “You failed.”

His mouth tilted at one corner.

“Big day?” she asked, voice rough with sleep. “Press stuff, then flight,” he replied. “Same circus, new city.”

He tied the drawstrings of his hoodie without looking at them, fingers working through familiar motions. The small movements betrayed nerves more than his face did. She pushed herself up against the headboard, pulling the sheet a little higher. The air had cooled, and goosebumps prickled along her arms.

He looked at her, eyes running from her messy hair to the sheet tucked under her arms. Something softer than his usual flirty gaze flickered there, something closer to gratitude and guilt tangled together.

“Thanks for letting me in,” he said. “You always knock like a criminal. I worry the neighbours will call security.” “You opened anyway.” “That part is on me.”

His lips pressed together for a moment. He stood, reaching for his cap on the dresser. The hotel room felt full of unsaid things. Weeks of half-conversations hovered in the air, thick as dust.

“Tonight helped,” he said finally. “Being here. With you.” Warmth and ache rose together inside her. She nodded once. “You know you can call me when the day goes well too,” she said. “That option exists.” He blinked, as if the idea surprised him. “Yeah,” he said. “I know.”

She could not tell if that answer held truth or reflex. He moved toward the door, shoes soft on the carpet. Hand on the handle, he paused, glancing back at her with a look that carried more weight than his words would ever admit.

“I’ll text you,” he said.

Familiar phrase. It hung between them, filled with every previous time he had said the same thing, every sequence that had followed: messages after midnight, another knock, another night like this.

She felt her throat tighten, but she lifted a shoulder in a half shrug. “See you on the next disaster weekend, then,” she replied, tone light.

He flinched, barely a flicker, yet there. His mouth parted as if he meant to answer, then closed again. For a heartbeat he looked like he might walk back to the bed, sit down, say something riskier. Instead, he gave a small nod. “It is never only that,” he said. “You know that, yeah?”

Her gaze caught his. A dozen bits of truth pressed against her teeth, crowding her tongue. She swallowed them all. “Travel safe,” she said.

He opened the door. Light from the corridor spilled over the carpet, bright and bland compared to the dim intimacy of the room. He stepped out into that light, shoulders squaring, posture shifting, the quiet version of him already retreating behind the public one. The door closed with a soft click.

Elena sat in the silence that followed, sheet gathered in her fists, the indent of his body still warm beside her. The hotel felt larger now, emptier, the crack in the ceiling more obvious in the morning light.

Her phone buzzed on the bedside table. She looked at it, at his name on the screen, shining through the smudged glass. She reached for the device, thumb hovering over the message preview, heart pulled between habit and something that felt dangerously close to a decision.

🏎️📸🏎️📸🏎️📸🏎️📸🏎️📸🏎️📸🏎️📸🏎️📸

London

Rain tapped a restless rhythm against Elena’s bedroom window, a restless hush over the groan of buses and tyres along the wet road below. London glowed in smeared streaks of orange and red through the glass, city lights warping in the raindrops that clung to the pane.

Her flat sat three floors above a shop that never seemed to open. The place smelled faintly of coffee grounds and printer ink from the tiny office next door, and tonight of the microwave noodles she had eaten straight from the bowl while hunched over her laptop.

The laptop perched on the low table in front of her sofa, a mess of cables trailing toward nearby sockets. A half-finished mug of tea had cooled to an unappealing shade near her elbow. The screen displayed a grid of thumbnails from Barcelona. Every other frame carried some shade of papaya orange or the intense white of floodlights on metal and carbon.

She sat cross-legged on the sagging grey sofa, hair in a knot on top of her head, one socked foot tucked under her thigh. The room around her held the evidence of two weeks lived mostly in transit. An open camera bag spilled batteries and lens cloths across the floor. Two tripods leaned against the wall. Speckled light from the street pulsed across the posters on her wall, band names and old tours layered over one another.

With each click of the trackpad she dismissed another image. Slight blur on a mechanic’s hand. Spectator’s arm intruding at the edge of a frame. The seconds between corners where cars glided without drama. She kept the moments that held feeling. Lando in the garage with jaw clenched. Mechanics’ eyes wide as the car rolled in with smoke beginning to curl from the brakes. A shot of him standing alone near the back of the paddock, head tipped, earbuds in, world falling away for a fragment of time.

Her phone vibrated against the coffee table. It spun a quarter turn from the force, lighting a little circle on the scarred wood. She ignored it long enough to finish editing one more image. A pair of mechanics, a bottle of water midair, focus sharp on the fingertips. When she hit save, she leaned forward to snag the phone.

A notification slid across the screen. Lando Safe home? Her mouth curved before she could stop it. She read the message twice, thumb hovering beneath the keyboard. Home yeah. Rainy and miserable, so perfect. She stared at the words, then hit send before she could second guess. Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again. Lando Better than media in a windowless room Lando Wish I was in London instead

Heat spread in her chest, light and stupid and warm. She sat back against the sofa, eyes on the ceiling for a second, letting the feeling wash through. She pictured him wherever he had ended up for that night, probably in some anonymous bland hotel room in another time zone. Television on low, travel bag open, clothes spilling out. The thought made the room feel fuller, as if his presence could reach through the screen.

Her fingers moved. You saying that because you like this city or because you miss my very professional therapy services Those dots came back faster. Lando Your sofa got better tea than this place Lando And you do portraits of my misery for free She snorted, then typed. I charge in content and insults

There was a longer pause. She saw the dots appear, hang, fade. A minute passed. Rain hit the window in an uneven pattern, wind catching the edge of the glass.

Her next message came out before she could dissuade herself. You sleep at all after the race? The reply took longer. Lando Not really Lando Keeps replaying Lando You know how it goes

Her thumb hovered. Her eyes drifted toward the clock in the corner of her laptop screen. 19:06. Nora would expect her at the bar by seven fifteen.

You did what you could. Car was a brick on sunday.

She added a small lightning bolt emoji at the end, an old joke from a race where he had called the car a shopping trolley with no wheels. The dots appeared again, hung there, then vanished. He did not answer.

Something in her stomach sank. Familiar. Like leaning too far back in a chair. Her phone lay warm in her hand. She studied the last message, the unacknowledged attempt at comfort. The urge rose to send another line, maybe a lighter one. She set the phone face down instead, placed it beside the cup, and pushed herself off the sofa.

Clothes lay in soft piles across the chair and a clothes horse near the radiator. She stepped over cables, crossed into her bedroom, and hunted through the chaos for something that conveyed an effort to appear as though life had other threads besides photography.

Nora had insisted on a dress. Elena had laughed and carried on pulling on black jeans.

She settled on black jeans anyway, a thin white shirt two buttons looser than usual, and a leather jacket scarred from years of photo pit railings. Makeup remained simple, flicked eyeliner and tinted balm, quick strokes that sharpened her features yet still felt like her face.

Her phone buzzed again from the other room. She froze with one earring halfway in, pulse jumping. For a moment she considered leaving it, walking into the rain without checking. That idea lasted three seconds.

The phone lit the dim of the living room when she picked it up. Lando Sorry Lando Bad mood Lando Didn’t want to dump more of it on you

Her chest softened and tightened in the same beat. She leaned against the doorframe, thumb tracing the edge of the phone. You always do, she thought.

She typed instead. That is literally my job remember I make a living out of catching your bad moods in hd Then added, before she could overthink, You can message even when you feel like that You know that Dots returned. Lando Yeah Lando Still feels unfair sometimes

Her heart squeezed. She pictured again that shot from the garage, the hollow in his eyes.

Before she could reply, another message slid in. Lando You out tonight?

She glanced at the time. 19:22. Nora had probably finished her first drink.

Heading to a bar with Nora Near yours Lando Hot date Elena paused, feeling a smile tug at the corner of her mouth, something complicated underneath. Potentially Kind of a set up thing Nora knows a guy Three dots popped up, disappeared. Reappeared.Lando Oh Lando Fun

No smiley, no joke, no little sticker to soften the word. It landed flat. Her fingers twitched. That little sting under her ribs, the same one she always felt when he pulled away emotionally, pushed her into a reply sharper than usual.

Shocking I know Person I sleep with when he is sad is aware other men exist

She hit send, a flicker of alarm following immediately. The screen stayed silent for a few seconds that stretched out longer in her mind.

Lando Lena The nickname crowded with more feeling than four letters deserved. Lando Gotta go Lando Talk later

The chat fell quiet. She stared at the last message until the screen dimmed. His name faded with the light. She pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose, took a breath that felt heavier than it should, then slid the phone into her bag.

She grabbed her keys from the bowl near the door, shrugged into her jacket, and stepped into the corridor. The stairwell carried the smell of someone frying onions on a lower floor. Cold air met her face as she exited into the street. Rain had eased into a drizzle, fine drops that caught the lamplight and misted her hair within seconds.

London on a weeknight held a different rhythm from race weekends. No tractor trailers rumbling in at dawn, no fans in team colours filling hotel lobbies, no distant roar from a track. The city breathed in slower cycles. Cars moved, people hurried under umbrellas, buses sighed at stops, a dog barked at its own reflection in a shop window.

She walked toward the tube station, boots splashing through shallow puddles. Her camera stayed behind for once. Nora waited at a small bar tucked between a launderette and a neon-lit nail salon. Inside, warm lamps hung low over mismatched tables. Condensation fogged the windows, smearing the view of passers by into soft moving shapes.

Elena spotted her friend at a corner table, curly hair pulled into a high ponytail, fringe curling from the damp. Two tall glasses sat between an array of napkins and a bowl of crisps. Nora waved dramatically, rings flashing in the light.

“There she is,” Nora said as Elena slid into the chair opposite. “World famous jet setter. You remember how to drink without a team principal lurking in the background.” “Barely,” Elena replied, shrugging off her jacket. “I keep expecting a sponsor logo on the beer tap.” Nora snorted. “Seat of honour,” Nora said, gesturing to the fresh cocktail. “Special occasion.” Elena eyed the drink. Pink, sugared rim, mint leaf. “What occasion exactly.” Nora wiggled her eyebrows. “I promised a colleague I would introduce you to someone delightful.” She leaned forward. “He plays guitar. Writes his own songs. Does not drive at two hundred miles an hour for a living, which, I think we can agree, counts as a selling point.” Elena picked up the glass, the cold condensation kissing her fingertips. “You say that like you think I have a type.” “You do,” Nora replied at once. “Emotionally unavailable, high speed, wears branded caps even in restaurants.” Elena laughed, the sound loosening something held tight all afternoon. “Tell me about this guy then,” she said. “Sam,” Nora answered. “Friend of a friend. Plays in that indie band I keep forcing on you. Mildly famous among people who own vinyl and dread Mondays. Kind, funny, owns fewer hoodies than your race boy.”

Elena took a sip of the cocktail. Sweet, tart, deceptively strong.

“Here,” Nora said, pulling her phone out. “Let me show you a photo, since that seems to be the language you speak.”

Elena rolled her eyes but leaned in. A photo on Nora’s screen displayed a tall man with messy dark hair, sharp jaw, guitar strap across his chest. He laughed in the shot, head thrown back, eyes crinkling.

“He looks charming,” Elena said. “And conscious of airbags and braking distances,” Nora added. “Big advantage.” Elena smiled faintly. “Where is he?” Nora nodded toward the bar. “At the counter, taking far too long to pick a drink because he is an overthinking goblin. He will be here in a minute, so stop spiralling about your hair and focus.” “I am not spiralling.” “You checked your reflection in the window three times on the way in.” “That is surveillance.” “Sure, agent Costa.” Nora’s grin carried affection more than teasing. She reached across the table and squeezed Elena’s forearm. “You look good,” she said. “Proper human, described in indie lyrics good.” Warmth flared in Elena’s cheeks. “You really were alone with Figma and clients all weekend,” Elena said. “These metaphors are out of control.” “That is why I keep you around. To audit my material.”

The two of them fell into easy conversation, Nora recounting an office disaster involving a client who changed brand colours three times in one week. Elena chimed in with a story about a singer who had demanded to be lit solely from the left, leading to a stage crew meltdown.

When Sam arrived, he did so with an apologetic half smile and a beer he carried like an unfamiliar prop.

“Elena, this is Sam,” Nora said. “Sam, this is Elena, who voluntarily spends time near race tracks and still hears properly.” Sam shook her hand, fingers warm, grip firm. “I have seen your pictures,” he said. “On Nora’s Instagram, not in a stalker way. Those shots from that backstage gig, where the drummer lost his stick and laughed instead of pretending it did not happen.” Elena’s eyebrows rose. “You noticed that.” “Could hardly miss it. Looked more alive than half the staged stuff I see.”

Flattery, yes. Yet it referred to the work instead of the subject matter. That difference mattered. They talked. At first about music and photography, then about cities. He told a story about playing in a tiny club in Berlin where the lights died mid-song, and the audience kept singing in the dark until power returned. She described trying to film a festival in the rain with mud up to her shins while her camera carried a price tag higher than her parents’ car.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket halfway through a story about a promoter who forgot to pay her. A reflexive twitch went through her shoulders. She resisted the urge to check and fought to keep her focus on Sam’s laughter, on Nora’s grin.

“So, how often do you travel?” Sam asked. “Sounds intense.” “Like a weekend a month, I’m only freelance with the racing stuff” she answered. “Plus I do shoots in town. I sleep in my own bed often enough to remember where the bathroom sits, which feels like a win.” “Ever get tired of airports?” “Constantly,” she said. “You think touring musicians love coach at four in the morning.”

He laughed. She joined him. The sound felt different from the laughter that filled hospitality at circuits. Softer. Less charged. Her phone vibrated again, a rapid double against her thigh.

“So,” Nora cut in during a lull. “Important question. What is your stance on friends dragging you out for Sunday brunch after nights like this?” “Pro brunch,” Sam replied. “Anti-mornings, yet I can be persuaded in exchange for coffee and pancakes.” “You hear that,” Nora told Elena. “We have ourselves a functioning adult.”

They slipped into a triangle of conversation, Nora steering topics whenever silence threatened. Jokes bounced from one to the other, easy and light. Nearly an hour passed before Elena excused herself to the bathroom. Inside the cramped space, she leaned against the sink and finally pulled out her phone.

Three messages waited. Lando You at the bar already? Lando Hope Nora’s guy has earplugs Lando Loud places make your ears twitch

Her lips parted. For a second, the noise of the bar fell away, replaced by the memory of a different night, after her first race weekend, his hand at the small of her back as they escaped a crowded hotel lounge and her complaint about the speaker volume, and he showed up with earplugs for her at the next track. He remembered tiny, throwaway details. That knowledge cut deeper than compliments about her work.

A fourth message arrived while she watched. Lando Send me a photo so I can approve

She stared at the words. The smile that had begun to form dimmed a little. Her fingers moved. No approval required I am allowed to talk to people without your sign off The reply did not come at once. She watched the dots pulse for a few seconds, then flicker out.

On the mirror, condensation had formed from too many people in too small a space. She wiped a circle clear with the edge of her sleeve and examined herself. Eyeliner held, lipstick patchy in the centre. Eyes tired yet brighter than they had looked on the flight home. She dabbed her mouth with a tissue, reapplied balm, smoothed her fringe with damp fingers. The phone buzzed again.

Lando You know I did not mean it like that Lando Have fun Lando Text me when you get home yeah

Her chest twisted. He wanted in on both worlds, it seemed. Comfort when he felt hollow, reassurance when she existed elsewhere.

She typed, erased, typed again. Will do

She slipped the phone back into her pocket and rejoined the others.

The rest of the night moved in that pleasant blur that came with second drinks and shared stories. Sam told an embarrassing tale involving a van, a broken amplifier, and a goat on a hillside in Spain. Nora nearly cried from laughter. Elena’s shoulders relaxed inch by inch, muscles unwinding under the low lights and background hum of conversations.

Once, during a pause, Nora watched her across the table, eyes a little too sharp.

“You seem lighter,” Nora said, voice pitched low enough that Sam, who had gone to refill his drink, did not hear. “Like your head decided you exist for yourself again.” Elena twisted the stem of her empty glass between her fingers. “Feels weird,” she admitted. “Good weird. Scary weird.” Nora reached across and poked her hand. “Keep that feeling,” she said. “Even when certain curly haired chaos elements text you at four in the morning.”

Elena smiled, but did not answer.

Rain had become a fine mist by the time they stepped back onto the pavement. Streetlights painted the wet asphalt in long streaks. Nora linked her arm through Elena’s.

“Do you like him,” Nora asked as they walked toward the station, Sam a few steps ahead speaking into his phone. “He seems kind,” Elena said slowly. “Real. Feels like someone who actually has evenings free.” “That can be arranged,” Nora murmured.

Elena’s phone buzzed in her pocket with the distinct double vibration of a message. She did not take it out.

“You sure you can handle a man who keeps both feet on the ground?” Nora asked. “Let us start with handling someone whose weekend schedule involves sound checks instead of tyre strategies,” Elena replied.

They reached the corner where their paths split. Sam raised his hand in a small wave.

“Good to meet you,” he said to Elena. “If you ever want to shoot a rehearsal, give Nora a shout, she will find me.” “Careful,” Nora said. “She may take that seriously. Then you get photos of your worst angles.” “Every angle is my worst angle,” Sam replied with a grin. “Reduces the pressure.”

They laughed, exchanged numbers through Nora’s phone with little ceremony, and parted ways. Elena and Nora continued toward their building.

“You are thinking hard,” Nora said. “Trying to remember the last time I talked to a man for three hours without discussing lap times,” Elena replied. “And.” “And I liked it.” Nora smiled in that way that softened her whole face. “Good,” she said. “You deserve conversations that begin with things other than sector splits.”

At her building entrance, they hugged under the flicker of the porch light. Rain dampened Nora’s hair again.

“Message me later,” Nora said. “Either with gossip or with a photo of a cat.” “You know I do not have a cat.” “A girl can hope.”

Elena climbed the stairs with the slow heaviness of someone pleasantly tired. Inside her flat, the air held the day’s residual warmth. She dropped her keys in the bowl, tossed her jacket over the back of a chair, and stood for a moment in the dim light, listening to the faint rumble of buses outside.

Her phone vibrated again. She moved to the sofa, sat, and pulled it out. Lando You alive? A time stamp showed it had come in twenty minutes earlier. Another followed. Lando Hope it went well

No emojis. Simple words, sitting there on the screen, weighty in their casual phrasing. Her thumb hovered. She pictured him wherever he had ended up, perhaps lying in a hotel bed that looked a little like the one in Barcelona, television light flashing against the curtains. She could answer. She could tell him about Sam, about Nora’s jokes, about the way the bar had smelled like citrus and old wood.

Instead, she placed the phone on the sofa cushion beside her, screen facing up, his name shining in the dim room. For several seconds she did nothing, eyes fixed on the glowing rectangle. The vibration came again, shivering through the cushion.

She exhaled, slower than her earlier laughter, and turned the device face down. The light vanished, leaving her with the rain at the window, the hum of the fridge, and the quiet thud of her own pulse as she leaned back and closed her eyes.

🏎️📸🏎️📸🏎️📸🏎️📸🏎️📸🏎️📸🏎️📸🏎️📸

Silverstone

Silverstone tasted like damp grass, diesel, and anticipation. Elena stepped out of the sponsor shuttle and into wind that cut through her jacket in spite of it being July. Low cloud sat heavy over the circuit, flattening the light into a pale grey sheet that made everything feel sharper. Sound carried farther in this weather. A distant engine note rolled across the paddock like thunder held in a fist.

Her media pass hung from her neck, the plastic tapping softly against her camera as she walked. The strap had already started to bite into her collarbone. She welcomed it. The weight anchored her, a reminder of why she came. Work. Frames. Deliverables. A world that existed beyond a driver’s hotel corridor.

Two races had passed since Barcelona-Catalunya. Two weekends of messages that arrived late, dried up early, then returned again with fresh urgency. Austria had been a blur of edits from her flat, a gig shoot in Brixton, and Lando’s name lighting up her screen at hours when the city outside her window ran on taxis and kebab-shop neon. She had answered less. He had pushed more.

Now he was here again, on home soil, with Union Jacks draped over shoulders and fans already pressed against barriers as if the fences could feel their devotion. Ahead, the paddock flowed like a river. Team kit in bright blocks of colour, camera rigs like skeletal animals, PR handlers steering people through bottlenecks. The air carried the clean bite of rain that had never fully committed, only hovered, threatening.

Elena reached the first security gate, held up her pass, and walked through. The familiar sensation hit her as she crossed the threshold. A shift in temperature, in pace, in the way people moved with purpose even when they pretended to stroll. Inside these fences, time became a schedule. Everything had a slot, a corridor, a handler, a deadline.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She left it there. A voice called her name before she made it to the sponsor suite.

“Elena.”

Amira Patel stood near a stack of branded backdrop panels, tablet in hand, hair sleek in a ponytail that never slipped. Her blazer looked immune to weather. Her expression sat somewhere between welcoming and appraising, a look that made people straighten their posture without realizing.

“Elena Costa,” Amira said, as if tasting the full name. “You look like you slept.” Elena gave her a thin smile. “Miracles happen.” Amira’s gaze flicked to the camera. “You brought the prime lens.” “Silverstone deserves it.” “Good answer.” Amira stepped closer, lowering her voice as people streamed past. “Schedule shifted. We lost ten minutes with Lando. He has a team debrief he cannot dodge.” Elena’s pulse gave a small, stupid kick. She kept her face calm. “Fine,” she said. “I can work fast.” “I know.” Amira tapped her tablet. “We have Lando at thirteen forty. Then Oscar at fourteen ten. Then a partner activation with the two of them at fourteen thirty-five. Lifestyle angles, fewer garage shots. Our client wants ‘human warmth’ this week.” Elena lifted a brow. “Human warmth at Silverstone.” Amira’s mouth curved. “Do your best. Also, Elena.” She paused, eyes sharpening by a degree. “Keep it balanced. Other teams see where the lens points. Rumours grow legs.”

Elena understood the subtext. A freelancer hired by a sponsor lived on reputation. One whisper could turn a portfolio into a punchline.

“Understood,” Elena said evenly. Amira’s gaze stayed on her for a beat, then softened. “Good. Grab a coffee, then meet me in the suite. We start in twelve.”

Elena nodded and moved on, boots crunching lightly over damp gravel. The wind carried the smell of espresso and hot oil from somewhere ahead. People jostled past, laughing in bursts, then snapping into serious expressions when a senior figure appeared.

The sponsor suite sat halfway down the paddock, glass front reflecting the grey sky. Inside, warm air hit Elena’s face. Branded walls, neat seating, trays of pastries arranged with clinical care. It smelled like citrus cleaner and coffee beans ground too fine.

She set her camera bag down near a chair and began checking gear. Batteries. Cards. Settings. Her hands moved with practiced certainty, the calm centre she built around herself at the start of every job.

From the far end of the suite, laughter rose, bright and practiced. A driver’s laugh. A familiar one. Elena’s shoulders tightened before she could stop them. Amira spoke to someone near the entrance, voice smooth, polished. Then she turned, gesturing.

“Perfect timing,” Amira said. “He is free early.”

Lando walked in wearing McLaren kit and a smile he could switch on like a light. He looked clean, pressed, ready for cameras. Hair tamed. Cap angled. A face built for broadcast.

His eyes found Elena and held her for a fraction longer than professionalism allowed. The smile stayed, yet something under it shifted. A quiet flicker, like a curtain moving with a draft.

“Elena,” he said, voice warm. “Back to take unflattering photos again.” She raised the camera and aimed at him in reply. “I capture truth.” “Cruel.” “Accurate.” Amira clapped once, brisk. “We have ten minutes. Keep it quick.”

Lando turned slightly toward Elena, positioning himself in the taped mark on the floor. He lifted his chin in mock model seriousness, shoulders back, hands loose at his sides.

Elena brought the viewfinder to her eye. Through the lens, the world tightened. His face filled the frame. Even in sponsor light, there was a thin exhaustion around his eyes. Fine lines that deepened when he smiled. A tension at his jaw that made him look like he had been chewing down words since dawn.

“Turn a touch left,” she said. He rotated, giving her his profile. “Like this?” “Hold.”

She clicked. The shutter sounded loud in the suite, crisp as a snap. She shifted her angle, moved closer, framed him against the branded wall so the logo sat above his shoulder. He played along, tossing out easy charm for the invisible audience.

“Did you enjoy London?” he asked, voice light. Elena kept shooting. “Rain. Nora. A bar.” “Productive.” She lowered the camera slightly. “Are you trying to have a conversation with me through a sponsor shoot.” His grin widened by a fraction. “Feels safer. Amira would murder me if I distracted you.” Amira’s voice cut in from behind Elena. “True.”

Elena suppressed a smile and returned to work. She changed lenses, stepped back, framed him full-body. The suite windows showed blurred motion outside, people passing, umbrellas bobbing like dark flowers.

Lando shifted to a more relaxed stance. Hands in pockets. Shoulders slightly slouched, the version of him fans called boyish. Elena watched him through the lens, waited for the smile to slip. It did. Only a moment, a blink in time, when his gaze drifted past the camera and his face fell into something quieter.

Elena clicked. Captured it. The real part. His eyes snapped back to her. A silent question lived there. She kept her expression neutral and moved on.

“Look at me,” she said. He obeyed. “Always.” Her fingers hesitated on the shutter. “That line felt rehearsed,” she said, sharp to cover the jolt in her chest. He chuckled. “Maybe I practiced.” “Sad.” “Dedicated.”

A staffer entered, whispering into Amira’s ear. Amira’s posture shifted, tension rising.

“We are down to four minutes,” Amira announced. “Two more angles, then he leaves.” Elena nodded, lifted the camera again. “Sit on the edge of the sofa.”

Lando sat, elbows on knees, hands clasped loosely. He looked up at her, expression softer as his body folded into a smaller shape.

Elena moved closer, careful with distance, aware of every eye in the room. Sponsor assistants hovered. A content producer held a phone, recording behind-the-scenes clips for the brand’s channels. Amira watched like a hawk. Elena shot three frames, then lowered the camera.

“Hold still,” she murmured, voice pitched low.

Lando’s gaze stayed on her face, intense in a way the lens could never fully translate. His mouth opened slightly, as if he meant to say something. A real sentence, not a joke.

Someone outside laughed too loudly. The moment cracked. Elena stepped back and snapped a final image, then dropped the camera to her chest.

“Done,” she said.

Lando stood, straightening his shirt. The public smile returned like a mask sliding into place. He leaned toward Elena as he passed, close enough that his shoulder nearly brushed hers.

“Can I talk to you?” he murmured, low. Elena kept her eyes on her camera as if adjusting settings. “After.” “After what.” “After work.”

His jaw tightened. He gave a tiny nod that meant both agreement and frustration, then turned toward Amira.

“Thanks,” he told her, bright. “Tell the client I was adorable.” Amira’s smile held ice beneath it. “Always.”

He left the suite with a wave, body language already shifting into athlete mode, stride longer, shoulders squared. Elena watched him through the glass as he merged into the paddock stream. Her phone buzzed in her pocket again. She left it there.

Amira tapped Elena’s shoulder. “Oscar in two.”

Elena breathed out, rolled her shoulders, returned to her camera. Oscar arrived with far less fanfare. No performance. No flourish. He walked in, nodded at Amira, then at Elena, eyes calm and observant.

“Afternoon,” he said to Elena, voice flat with a hint of humour. “You here to make me look taller?” “You do that alone,” Elena replied. A corner of his mouth lifted. “Glad to hear it.”

The shoot with Oscar moved efficiently. He followed directions without fuss. When Elena asked for a small smile, he gave one that looked like he was humouring a child, yet it landed well on camera. His stillness made it easier to pull clean frames, fewer tiny shifts, fewer wasted shots.

During a pause while Elena switched lenses, Oscar’s gaze drifted toward the door Lando had gone through.

“He seems keyed up,” Oscar said, quiet. Elena kept her attention on her camera. “Race weekend.” Oscar hummed. “Home crowd does that.” “Elaborate.” He shrugged, subtle. “More people to impress, more pressure here, especially since he won last year.”

Elena met his eyes briefly. His expression held curiosity, mild, careful.

“You and him,” Oscar added, casual tone, yet his gaze stayed steady. “You work together a lot?” Elena offered a professional smile. “Brands hire me when they want coverage.” Oscar nodded as if that answered enough. “Right.”

His tone held a dry edge, the kind that suggested he knew more than he said. He gave her no direct push, no interrogation, only a small pressure point that made her pulse jump.

Amira stepped in with a bright voice. “Two minutes for the partner activation.”

Lando returned as if on cue, moving fast, a handler trailing behind him with a schedule in hand. His smile shone again for cameras and clients. Yet when his eyes found Elena, something flickered, sharp and personal.

They stood side by side for the activation, framed against the branded backdrop. Elena shot while other cameras flashed, the air filled with overlapping shutter clicks and the soft hiss of video rigs.

“Great,” the client rep said. “Give us a friendly shoulder bump.”

Lando leaned into Oscar with ease, then turned his head toward Elena while the cameras still rolled. His mouth moved, barely.

“Tonight,” he mouthed.

Elena’s grip tightened on her camera. She kept shooting, face blank. The activation ended with handshakes and polite laughter. Lando disappeared again into the paddock. Oscar drifted off with a nod to Elena, leaving her alone with Amira and a pile of memory cards full of faces that carried subtext.

Amira watched Lando’s retreating back through the glass.

“Talented boy,” she said. Elena slid a card into its case. “Talented.” Amira’s gaze shifted to Elena, sharp again. “Elena, I value you. I value your work. Keep your head clear. You understand?” Elena met her eyes. “I do.” “Good.” Amira’s voice softened by a fraction. “Upload selects by six. Client wants a teaser reel before dinner.”

Elena nodded, then picked up her bag and walked out of the suite.

Outside, the paddock had grown louder. More people, more cameras, more movement. The wind carried a distant roar from trackside as cars began to circulate for practice, the sound rising like a wave then falling again.

Elena headed toward a service corridor behind the motorhomes, a quieter artery where staff moved crates and equipment. The air smelled of wet concrete and hot electronics. A security guard leaned against a wall, bored.

Her phone buzzed again. She pulled it out this time. Lando Where are you?

Elena stared at the screen, thumb hovering. A reply formed, then dissolved. She could draw a boundary. She could focus on edits. She could keep her world clean.

Her body moved before her mind finished arguing. She walked deeper into the corridor, past stacked cases and cable runs, toward a dimmer stretch where overhead lights flickered.

Footsteps approached behind her, quick, familiar.

“Lena,” Lando said, voice low.

She turned. He stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets, cap brim shadowing his eyes. Up close, the performance slipped. The tension in his jaw returned. His breathing ran shallow, like he had been holding it.

“You have been hard to reach,” he said. Elena tilted her head. “I had work. Real work.” He let out a short laugh that held zero humour. “You had time for a bar.” She kept her voice even. “Yes.” His eyes narrowed. “With that guy.”

Elena felt heat flare under her skin, part anger, part something that felt too close to satisfaction.

“You mean Sam,” she said. “Yes. With Sam.” Lando’s gaze flicked to the side, then back. “You gave him your time.” Elena stepped closer, lowering her voice as a pair of staffers rolled a crate past them. “You call it my time when you want it.” His nostrils flared. “You know what I mean.” “I do,” she said. “I also know what you mean every time you appear at my door after a bad day.”

His expression shifted, pain flashing through the annoyance. His mouth opened, then closed. For a second, he looked like he might say something honest. Instead, he tried to smile. It came out strained.

“I wanted to see you,” he said. “You saw me,” Elena replied. “In a sponsor suite, with Amira watching. In front of half the paddock. You had your fill.” His gaze held hers, intense. “You think that is what I want?” Elena’s throat tightened. She forced herself to hold eye contact. “What do you want?” she asked.

His jaw worked. His fingers flexed inside his pockets. The corridor hummed with distant engines and the low murmur of paddock life.

“You,” he said, rough.

Elena felt the word land in her chest like a weight. A beautiful one. A dangerous one.

“Then act like it,” she said quietly.

His eyes widened a fraction, as if the directness hit a nerve. He took a step closer, closing the gap. The air between them tightened, charged. A door banged open farther down the corridor. Voices rose. Someone laughed. Lando’s gaze flicked toward the sound, then back to Elena. His face hardened, frustration and fear mixing together.

“Tonight,” he repeated, voice a shade softer. Elena swallowed. “I have edits.” “I have a debrief,” he shot back, then caught himself, breath hitching. “I have a million things. I still want tonight.” Elena looked at him, at the tension under his skin, at the way he held himself like he could sprint away at any second. “You want sex,” she said, voice calm. “Or you want me?” His eyes flashed, hurt and anger together. He leaned in, close enough that she felt the warmth of his breath at her cheek. “Stop making it sound like those are different,” he murmured. Elena’s pulse hammered. She held her ground. “They are,” she whispered. For a heartbeat, he looked like he might touch her. His hand shifted in his pocket, then stayed there. He stepped back, as if the movement took effort. “Fine,” he said, voice tight. “Do your edits.”

Elena watched him, chest tight, as he turned away. He took three steps, then paused. His shoulders rose and fell once, a controlled breath. He looked back over his shoulder.

“Send me that photo,” he said, voice quieter, almost bare. Elena’s throat tightened again. She nodded once. “I will,” she said.

He gave a small nod in return, then disappeared down the corridor into the noise and light of the paddock. Elena stood there for a moment, listening to the engines on track, the wind tugging at banners overhead, the circuit alive in her bones.

Then she turned back toward the sponsor suite, camera heavy at her chest, cards full of faces, heart full of trouble she kept trying to frame into something clean.

🏎️📸🏎️📸🏎️📸🏎️📸🏎️📸🏎️📸🏎️📸🏎️📸

The hotel bar smelled of citrus, cologne, and something fried that refused to leave the air. Warm light pooled over low tables. Glasses clinked in bright, careless bursts that felt almost violent after a day of controlled paddock noise.

Elena stood near the edge of the crowd with a gin and tonic sweating in her hand. Her camera stayed upstairs, locked in her bag, and the absence of it made her feel exposed. She had no lens to hide behind. No reason to angle her body away. No excuse to leave early for an edit deadline.

People from everywhere filled the room. Sponsor staff in smart casual, media people with lanyards tucked in pockets, a few engineers who looked allergic to small talk, and one cluster of drivers orbiting their handlers like planets under supervision. Amira had insisted Elena attend. “Face time,” she had said, like it was a currency. Elena had agreed because it mattered, because she needed this client, because she had promised herself, she could exist in this world without becoming a story someone else told.

She laughed at a joke from a woman in brand partnerships and angled her body away from the door. She had no interest in looking for him. She had been telling herself that since the sponsor suite, since the corridor, since the way his eyes had asked for her with a kind of selfishness dressed up as need.

Her phone sat in her back pocket like a live wire. It had stayed quiet for hours.

A man slid into the empty space beside her with the easy confidence of someone used to being welcome. He wore a sponsor badge and a watch that caught the light with every movement of his wrist.

“Hey,” he said, smile bright. “Elena, right?” She recognized him from earlier. Sales, or partnerships, or one of those roles where people collected names like trophies. “Elena,” she confirmed. “Matt,” he said. “I have seen your work. The Monaco reel. Clean. Expensive. Makes us look like we know what we are doing.” Elena lifted her glass in a small salute. “Happy to help with the illusion.” He laughed, leaning closer so he could be heard over the music. He smelled like citrus and something sharper, expensive. “How long are you in town?” he asked. “Until Sunday night.” “That is tragic,” he said, as if the weekend had personally wronged him. “We should fix it. Dinner tomorrow. Somewhere outside this bubble.” Elena held his gaze, amused. “You mean somewhere without lanyards.” “Exactly.”

He smiled again, teeth perfect. Elena felt the familiar sensation of being evaluated, desired, invited. It was flattering in the clean way that carried no history. A heat of awareness rose in her chest, and it came with an edge. It felt like oxygen after holding her breath for too long.

“Maybe,” she said, voice light. “Depends, are you entertaining outside corporate settings?” Matt placed a hand over his heart. “Wounded. I am fascinating.”

She laughed, and he looked pleased with himself.

Behind Matt, the bar door opened. Elena felt it before she saw it. A shift in the room, a small ripple of attention. She looked over Matt’s shoulder and found Lando at the entrance, flanked by Oscar and a trainer. Lando’s smile sat in place, public and polished, yet his eyes swept the room with a hungry focus that had nothing to do with alcohol.

His gaze landed on Elena. Held. Then flicked to Matt. The smile stayed, and something else slid underneath it. A tightness at the jaw. A hardening in the eyes. Elena’s fingers tightened around her glass.

Matt continued talking, unaware, telling a story about a sponsor dinner that had gone wrong when an executive tried to karaoke after one drink too many. Elena made the right noises at the right moments, laughed on cue, yet her attention had narrowed to one thing.

Lando moved through the bar with Oscar at his side, greeting people, shaking hands, performing. His eyes returned to Elena again and again like he kept checking whether she was still there, still leaning in, still laughing at someone else. Oscar’s gaze drifted toward Elena once, brief and unreadable. Then he looked away.

Elena’s pulse ran faster. Heat climbed her neck, a blend of irritation and satisfaction that tasted metallic.

Matt leaned closer, voice low. “So. Dinner. Tomorrow. I know a place in Northampton that does steak like it means it.”

Elena opened her mouth to reply, then paused as Lando appeared at the edge of their space.

“Matt,” Lando said, smiling wide. “You are still alive. Congratulations.” Matt blinked, then laughed as if this was friendly. “Barely. You tried to ruin my day with those briefing notes.” Lando placed a hand on Matt’s shoulder, casual to anyone watching. His eyes never left Elena’s face. “Elena,” he said. “You survived. Impressive.” Elena held his gaze, expression neutral. “I have practice.” Lando’s smile tightened. “Yeah. You do.” Matt chuckled, clueless. “She is the one behind all our pretty content. You should be nice to her. She makes you look heroic.” Lando’s eyes flashed for a second, then smoothed again. “She does her best.” Elena’s lips curved, sharp. “He gives me plenty to work with.” Lando’s jaw flexed. His gaze dipped to her mouth, then back to her eyes. Matt lifted his glass. “To Elena. The magician.”

Elena clinked his glass with hers. Lando watched the gesture like it tasted sour.

“Lando,” Oscar said from behind him, voice dry. “We should move. Zak wants an early start.”

Lando did not shift. His body stayed angled toward Elena, as if he had planted himself there.

“You leaving already?” Elena asked, tone light.

He leaned closer, voice pitched low enough that Matt would miss the words under the music.

“Come upstairs,” Lando said.

Heat snapped through Elena’s stomach. It was a familiar command, wrapped in a familiar tone, a tone he used when he wanted control without admitting he wanted anything at all. Elena’s face stayed smooth. Her hands stayed steady around her drink.

“Later,” she answered. His gaze sharpened. “Now.” Matt laughed, looking between them, reading it as harmless banter. “Alright, alright, I get it. I am interrupting.” Elena met Matt’s eyes. “You are fine.”

Lando’s mouth twitched, displeased.

Oscar touched Lando’s elbow. “Mate.”

Lando did not move. His eyes stayed on Elena, and the intensity in them made the bar feel too small, too warm. Elena felt the pull. The part of her that always opened the door, that always surrendered to the heat and the relief of being wanted. She felt it rise and press at her ribs like a tide.

She also felt the other part, the one that had spent two races telling herself she had a life that mattered, a life that deserved more than being someone’s hiding place.

Matt looked at Elena, smile lingering. “Text me about tomorrow.” Elena nodded. “I will.”

Matt drifted away, leaving the space between Elena and Lando exposed.

Lando took a half step closer, voice low. “You are doing that on purpose.” Elena blinked slowly. “Doing what.” “Talking to him,” Lando said. The smile had fallen away. His voice carried a bite. “Laughing like that.”

Elena’s own annoyance flared.

“So what if she laughs? She can laugh. You do not own her.” The sentence hit her mind like a slap. She realized too late it came from Oscar’s direction, spoken in his flat, sharp tone, aimed at Lando. Oscar stood beside him with his drink untouched, eyes steady, expression bored like this was a predictable problem.

Lando’s head snapped toward Oscar. “I did not say I owned anyone.” Oscar shrugged. “Sounded close.” The coach cleared his throat, uncomfortable. “Gentlemen.”

Elena’s cheeks burned, part embarrassment, part gratitude, part fury at being dragged into a conversation like she was a topic.

Lando’s gaze returned to Elena, softer for a second. “Come upstairs,” he said again, quieter now. “Please.”

The word landed heavier. Less command, more plea. Elena swallowed. She could feel how easy it would be to say yes. To let the night blur. To let the fight dissolve into heat and hands and mouths. To wake up with his arm around her and pretend that meant something.

She set her glass down on the nearest table. The condensation ring it left behind looked like a bruise. “Walk with me,” she said.

Lando hesitated, then nodded. Oscar’s gaze followed them, and his expression held a warning that felt aimed at both of them. Elena led the way out of the bar into the hotel corridor. The air outside felt cooler, quieter, the fluorescent lighting harsh after the warmth of the lounge. Carpets muted their footsteps. Somewhere down the hall, an elevator chimed.

Lando fell into step beside her, hands in his pockets, shoulders tense. His cap sat low, shadowing his eyes. He looked like a man trying to hold himself together with fabric and posture. They reached the stairwell door. Elena pushed it open and stepped inside.

The stairwell smelled like cleaning products and concrete. The fluorescent lights flickered faintly. Their footsteps echoed off the walls in a way the bar had swallowed. Elena stopped on the first landing. Lando stopped one step below, close enough that she could feel the heat of him, close enough that she could see the pulse jumping in his throat.

He stared at her like he had been starving since the sponsor suite. His eyes moved over her face, her mouth, the exposed skin at her throat. “You liked that,” he said, voice low. “Back there.” Elena scoffed. “You think I exist to tease you?” “I think you wanted me to see,” he replied. Elena’s breath caught. Anger flared. So did something else, sharp and hot. “Maybe I wanted to remember I have choices,” she said. His brows drew together. “You have always had choices.” “Then act like it,” Elena shot back. “Act like I am one.”

Silence hit the space between them. The stairwell felt too quiet, every breath loud. Lando moved closer, one step, then another. He stopped when his chest nearly brushed hers.

“I do choose you,” he said, voice rough.

Elena’s throat tightened. The words sounded good. They always sounded good. She lifted her hand and pressed her palm flat against his chest through the hoodie. His heartbeat thudded fast against her skin. Under the fabric, he felt tense, wired.

“You choose me when you feel like this,” she said. “After a bad day. After someone looks at you wrong. After you spiral.” His jaw clenched. “That is unfair.” Elena held his gaze. “Is it?” His eyes flashed, then softened. “I came because I wanted to see you.” “You came because you saw me with Matt,” she said. A beat of silence. Lando’s mouth parted, and his breath came out sharp. His eyes dropped to her hand on his chest, then back to her face. “I hated it,” he admitted.

Elena’s stomach dipped. She should have felt satisfied. Instead, the confession twisted in her chest like a hook. Jealousy felt too close to care, and care felt too close to the thing she wanted him to name.

Lando reached up and covered her hand with his. His fingers were warm, calloused in small places from steering wheel grips and endless training. He pressed her hand harder against him like he wanted her to feel the truth.

“I hated it because you looked happy,” he said. “Because you looked like you did not need me.” Elena’s breath hitched. “That is the point,” she whispered. “I cannot be the girl who only matters when you are miserable.” Lando’s thumb moved over her knuckles, a gentle stroke that did not match the tension in his face. “You matter,” he said. “You know you matter.” Elena laughed once, short and sharp. “Then why do you keep asking for me like I am a secret snack you steal when you are stressed?” His eyes darkened. “That is not what you are.” “Then stop treating me like it,” she said, voice quiet, dangerous.

The air between them thickened. He leaned in, gaze dropping to her mouth. Elena felt the pull, deep and immediate. The memory of Barcelona flooded her body in a rush. His hands. His mouth. The way his breath turned ragged when she let him take control. Her fingers curled against his chest. Her mind screamed at her to step back. Her body wanted to step forward.

Lando’s mouth hovered near hers, and his voice came out low. “Let me come up. Please.”

Elena shut her eyes for a second. The internal battle raged behind her ribs, bright and vicious. She wanted him. She wanted to kiss him until she forgot her own name. She wanted to feel him like an anchor, to let the world fade. She also wanted to wake up with dignity intact.

She opened her eyes and held his gaze. “I want you,” she said.

His expression cracked, relief flashing through.

Elena raised her chin. “I want you a lot. That is the problem.”

His brows pulled together.

“I want you,” she repeated, voice steady, “and I want more than this.” His hand tightened around hers. “Elena.” She shook her head, small movement. “Listen.”

He did. For once, he stayed still.

“I can feel you pulling me back into it,” she said. “The hotel rooms, the late nights, the way you show up when you are wrecked, and you want to forget. I can do it. I can let you in. I know exactly how.”

His eyes burned on hers.

“But I will hate myself after,” she continued. “I will lie awake while you sleep. I will watch you get dressed and leave. I will tell myself it meant something because it felt like something. That cycle will eat me.” Lando’s jaw clenched, anger and pain mixing together. “You think I do not care,” he said. Elena’s voice stayed calm. “I think you care. I think you care in the way you know how. I think you care when it costs you very little.”

The words landed like a punch. Lando flinched.

Silence filled the stairwell. Somewhere above them, a door clicked open and shut. Footsteps moved along a corridor. The world kept spinning around their small private fight.

Lando’s voice came out tight. “So, what? You want me to stand in front of everyone and announce it?” Elena’s chest tightened. “I want you to treat me like a person you choose during the day. I want a text before the race weekend. I want you to call me when you are happy. I want you to stop reaching for me only after you break.” His gaze dropped. When he looked back up, it held fear. “I don’t know how,” he admitted. Elena’s breath left her slowly. The confession felt honest, and honesty always scared her more than cruelty. “Then learn,” she said. He shook his head once, frustrated. “You are making this sound easy.” “It is hard,” Elena said. “That is why it matters.” Lando’s fingers slid along her wrist, then down to interlace with hers. His grip was firm, grounding. “Come upstairs,” he said again, voice softer. Elena’s throat tightened. She shook her head. “Tonight,” she said, “we stop at the door.” His eyes narrowed. “Why?” “Because I need you to hear me while your blood is still up,” Elena replied. “Because I need you to remember this conversation tomorrow. Because I need to know you can want me and still treat me with care.”

Lando stared at her. His face looked like it had been stripped of armour. A man who could handle G-forces and cameras and pressure, yet stood in a stairwell and struggled with a sentence.

Elena stepped closer and kissed him, fast and fierce, a kiss that tasted like restraint and challenge. His hands flew to her waist, pulling her in, mouth opening with hunger. She broke away before it could pull them under. Her breath came fast. His did too.

His forehead hovered close to hers. “Lena.” She pressed her fingers to his lips, gentle. “No,” she whispered.

His eyes closed for a second. He looked pained, like denial physically hurt. Elena lowered her hand and took a step back.

“Walk me to my door,” she said.

He stared at her as if he wanted to argue. Then he nodded once, sharp. They climbed the stairs together, footsteps echoing. The corridor on her floor felt too bright, too ordinary. Beige walls. A framed print of something coastal. A sign pointing toward the ice machine.

They stopped outside her room. She pulled her key card from her pocket. Her fingers shook slightly. Lando stood close, hands in his pockets, shoulders tight. He looked like he might reach for her again. He did not. Elena slid the card and opened the door. Warm air spilled out. The faint scent of her shampoo clung to the room, mixed with the sharpness of fresh hotel detergent.

She paused in the doorway and turned back. “I am serious,” she said. Lando’s eyes held hers. “I know.” “No,” Elena said, voice low. “You know I am angry. You know I want you. You need to know I will leave if this stays like this.”

The words tasted like metal as they left her mouth. She felt fear rise. Fear of saying it. Fear of meaning it.

Lando’s face tightened. His voice came out rough. “Do not say that.” “I am saying it,” Elena replied.

Silence stretched. Lando stepped closer, stopping at the threshold. He did not cross it. His gaze flicked to the bed behind her, then back to her face.

“I can try,” he said. Elena’s stomach tightened at the word try. “Trying looks like a call,” she said. “Trying looks like daylight. Trying looks like you wanting me when you are fine, and happy.” His throat bobbed. He nodded once. “Okay,” he said, voice thin. “Okay.”

Elena held his gaze for a beat longer, then stepped backward into the room. Lando stayed in the corridor. She lifted a hand and touched his cheek with her fingertips, brief contact, soft in a way that hurt.

“I am going to sleep,” she said. His eyes burned. “Yeah.”

Elena nodded once, then closed the door. The latch clicked. She leaned her forehead against the wood for a second, breath shaking. Her body still buzzed with the craving she had denied, skin hot, nerves alive. Her mind raced with panic and relief in equal measure.

She pushed away from the door and crossed to the bed on unsteady legs. Outside in the corridor, footsteps moved away.

Elena sat on the edge of the mattress, hands clasped tight in her lap, and stared at the blank hotel wall until her breathing slowed enough to feel like hers again.

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Hungary

The Hungaroring emptied in a slow exhale. Even after the last car crossed the line, the place held heat like a fist. Asphalt radiated through the soles of Elena’s trainers when she finally left the sponsor compound, shoulders aching from the camera strap, throat raw from shouting over engines. The sky over Budapest had gone bruised purple, and the air felt thick enough to drink.

She rode a shuttle out past the circuit fencing and the rows of parked cars, past fans drifting toward buses with flags draped over their backs, past clusters of people replaying the crash with their hands, elbows chopping through the air to describe angles and blame. The shuttle smelled of sunscreen and sweat and something sweet from a spilled soda.

Her Airbnb sat twenty minutes away in a low concrete building that looked tired even in daylight. At night it looked worse. Yellow corridor lights, chipped paint on the railings, a stairwell that creaked like it resented every footstep.

She let herself in and turned the key twice out of habit, then leaned her forehead against the door for a moment. The flat held a thin, stale coolness from a wall unit that rattled and failed to commit. Outside, the parking lot filled the view. A line of battered hatchbacks, a delivery van with a dented side, and a stray cat threading between tyres like it owned the place.

Elena dropped her bag by the sofa and kicked her shoes off. Her feet pulsed, hot and sore. She walked to the kitchenette and filled the kettle, moving on muscle memory alone. The counter held two mugs. One she had used this morning. The other sat clean, untouched, a quiet domestic detail that made the room feel like a place where someone could stay.

She told herself she liked that. She told herself the emptiness felt calm. Her phone buzzed in her pocket. A message from a client asking for a quote. Another from Nora, a voice note, full of laughter and gossip. Another from Sam, a photo from a rehearsal space, cables and beer cans and his guitar case open like a mouth.

Sam. You would have loved this lighting. Pure chaos. Sam. You alive out there?

Elena stared at the screen, thumb hovering. She could picture his grin, the way he leaned into jokes like a habit, the way he watched her work with real interest. She had gone to two rehearsals since Silverstone. Shot a gig in Camden from a sticky floor, the kind of venue that made her shoes smell like spilled lager for days.

Sam had flirted with her in that easy, low-stakes way. A hand at her elbow through a crowd. A glance held a beat too long. He had walked her to the tube once, talking about chord progressions like it mattered. It had felt simple. Clean. Almost. Nothing from Lando. She typed with her thumb.

Elena. Alive. Sweaty. Hungaroring tried to cook everyone. Elena. Send me the chaos lighting. Sam replied fast.Sam. On it. Sam. Also, dinner when you land?

Her chest tightened, the way it always did when a normal option appeared in front of her. She could say yes. She could build something that stayed in daylight. Her phone buzzed again before she could answer. A notification from an F1 account. A clip of the incident, replayed from ten angles with captions arguing about fault. A still frame of papaya orange and tyre smoke. A freeze of Lando’s car at a wrong angle.

Elena’s stomach turned. She tossed her phone onto the sofa cushion and went to the tiny bathroom to wash her hands, scrubbing until the water ran warm, then cold. When she came back out, she turned the TV on low, more for noise than content, and sank onto the sofa with her laptop balanced on her thighs.

Edits waited. The sponsor wanted a recap reel before midnight. A set of stills approved and sent. Her fingers moved through folders, through timelines, through colour correction. She cut Lando’s weekend into thirty seconds of polished drama: smiling on Thursday, focused on Friday, tense on Saturday, then Sunday’s moment of impact held for half a beat before a clean cut to something safer. A mechanic’s hands. A helmet being lifted. A crowd roaring.

She removed the worst parts. The flinch of his shoulders when the car stopped. The way he sat with his head bowed, hands locked together like prayer. The kettle clicked off. She poured water, made tea, carried the mug back to the sofa. Steam rose and curled, then vanished into the warm air.

Her phone stayed face down.

Silverstone had been three weeks ago. Three weeks since the stairwell, since her door, since the way she had said the words she had been afraid to say. She will leave. She needs daylight. She wants him when he feels fine. He had said okay. Then silence had settled.

Belgium had come and gone with a few headlines, a few blurry photos from other freelancers, a few flashes of papaya on her screen. She had seen him on broadcast, smiling at cameras, voice light in interviews, and the gap between that image and the quiet boy in her hotel room had made her teeth ache.

He had not called. He had not texted. He had not tried. Her brain had kept offering excuses anyway. Busy. Stress. Travel. Team demands. Her chest had kept offering something else. Hurt.

A knock hit the door.

Elena froze, fingers still on the keyboard. The flat went silent in her mind, as if even the TV sound dropped away.

The knock came again, heavier this time.

She stared at the door, pulse hammering, and felt a ridiculous flash of anger before she even moved. The kind of anger that came from being right. She closed the laptop with a soft snap and stood, moving across the creaky floorboards on bare feet. The corridor outside showed through the peephole in warped light. A cap brim. A hoodie. Shoulders slumped.

Her throat tightened. Elena opened the door.

Lando stood there with his hands in his pockets, head slightly down, cap pulled low like it could hide him from the world. His hoodie looked crumpled, like he had slept in it or shoved it on with zero care. His eyes looked wrecked. No grin. No charm. Only exhaustion and something close to fear. He swallowed once.

“Can I come in?” he asked.

His voice sounded rough, scraped out, like he had been chewing on the question for an hour. Elena held the door with one hand and stared at him. Anger rose. Want rose too, immediate and hot, as if her body kept its own calendar.

She stepped aside. He entered slowly, as if crossing the threshold required permission from more than her. Elena shut the door and turned the lock. The click sounded loud in the small flat.

Lando stood in the middle of the room, looking at the sofa, the blanket folded over one armrest, the second mug on the counter, the laptop closed on the coffee table. His gaze flicked to her camera bag on the floor, then to her face.

“You are here,” he said, and the words came out like relief. Elena crossed her arms. “Yes.” He nodded once, small and stiff, then looked down at the floor as if he had run out of safe places to put his eyes. “I crashed,” he said quietly. Elena’s chest tightened. She had watched it. She had edited around it. “I saw,” she answered, voice flat. His mouth twitched, a small wince. “Yeah.”

Silence stretched. The wall unit rattled. Outside, a car alarm chirped once and died.

Elena gestured toward the sofa. “Sit.”

Lando obeyed. He lowered himself onto the cushion like his bones felt older than they should. His elbows rested on his knees, hands clasped together, fingers flexing and locking again. He stared at his knuckles, then at the floor.

Elena stayed standing for a moment, watching him. She felt the pull to move closer, to touch his hair, to soften the edges. She held herself in place instead.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

His shoulders rose and fell once. A controlled breath.

“I needed quiet,” he said. Elena’s laugh came out sharp. “So, you came to me.” His gaze lifted to her face. Pain flashed there, quick and honest. “Yes,” he said.

The directness landed like a blow. Elena walked to the kitchenette and set her mug down hard enough to make tea jump up the sides. She took a breath, then turned back to him.

“You vanished,” she said. Lando’s jaw clenched. “I know.” “You said okay,” Elena continued, voice steady, “and then you disappeared.” He rubbed a hand over his mouth, then dropped it back to his knee. “I tried to call,” he said. Elena’s eyes narrowed. “When.” He hesitated. “After Spa.” A ghost of irritation rose. “And?” “I hung up before it rang,” he admitted. Elena stared at him, anger burning hot behind her ribs. “Why?” His shoulders sagged. “Because I did not know what to say. Because I kept hearing you in my head, and it made me feel like a piece of crap. Because every time I picked up my phone, I thought I would make it worse.” Elena swallowed. She moved closer, then stopped short of the coffee table. The space between them felt like an argument. “You did make it worse,” she said quietly.

Lando flinched.

Elena’s voice softened without permission. “You left me guessing.” He stared at his hands again. “I got praised all week,” he said, voice low. “All the prerace stuff. Home hero. Big expectations. Then one mistake and suddenly everyone,” He shook his head once, sharp. “Same people who love you turn into a crowd with knives. It feels like you are always one moment away from being useless.”

Elena watched his shoulders tighten, watched the muscles in his forearms jump as his hands clenched.

He continued, words spilling faster, as if once he started, he had no way to stop. “The team tries to be supportive, and it still feels like pressure. The media asks questions like they already decided what the answer is. Then fans say they would have driven it better from their couch. Then you get back to the garage, and you have to look at everyone who worked all week, and you feel like you wasted their time.” His voice broke on the last word. He pressed his lips together and swallowed hard.

Elena’s throat tightened. She sat on the armchair opposite the sofa, close enough to see the tremor in his fingers.

He looked up, eyes bright, fixed on her face like he needed an anchor. “I came here because you make it smaller,” he said. “Because with you it feels like I can breathe.” Elena felt heat rise behind her eyes. She blinked it away. “You could have texted,” she said. Lando’s mouth twisted. “I know.” “You could have tried,” Elena pressed, voice tighter. He looked away. “I am trying.” Elena leaned forward. “Trying looks like action.” His gaze snapped back. “I am here.” “That is late,” Elena said, and the words came out sharper than she intended. Lando’s shoulders slumped. “Yeah.”

Silence settled again. The TV murmured. A laugh track from some show neither of them watched. Elena’s own heartbeat sounded too loud. Lando’s eyes drifted past her to the counter, to the second mug.

“You live like a normal person,” he said, and the sentence carried bitterness and envy. Elena’s laugh held no humour. “I live like someone who has to pay her own rent.” He looked at her, eyes tired. “You were at a bar with that guy.” Heat flashed in Elena’s chest. “Matt.” His jaw flexed. “Yeah.” “You came to yell at me about it,” Elena said. His gaze dropped. “No.” Elena stared. “Then why bring it up?” He rubbed his thumb along his knuckle, skin already raw. “Because it made me feel replaceable,” he said quietly. The confession landed heavy. Elena felt her anger wobble, then shift into something else. “I’ve told you this. You are not replaceable,” she said. He laughed once, harsh. “Everyone is replaceable.” Elena shook her head, slow. “You are Lando Norris. Half the planet has an opinion about you. You could sneeze and someone would write a think piece.”

His eyes flicked up, almost a smile, then faded.

Elena’s voice softened. “I did not want to make you feel replaceable. I wanted to feel like I had choices, and like I was someone’s choice, not their backup. I wanted to feel like my life belonged to me.” He stared at her, eyes wide with something close to understanding. “I know,” he said. Elena swallowed, then forced herself to say the part that always stuck. “I do not know what I am to you,” she said, voice low. “Outside hotel rooms. Outside bad days. And I cannot keep having this conversation.”

Lando’s face tightened. He looked down at his hands again, shoulders rising, then falling. He opened his mouth, then closed it. He inhaled, then stopped halfway. Elena watched him struggle and felt her chest crack in a place she had been protecting.

“You can say it,” she whispered.

His throat bobbed. His eyes stayed on his hands, like looking at her would make it worse. “I do not know how to do this,” he said.

Elena’s breath caught. “Do what?”

“Be good at it,” he said, voice rough. “Be a person who gives you what you want. I can drive. I can do press. I can survive the paddock. I do not know how to be steady.”

Elena sat still, absorbing it. His honesty felt rawer than any apology. “You could learn,” she said.

Lando’s shoulders shook with a silent laugh that sounded like pain. “You think I have time?”

Elena held his gaze. “You make time for what matters.”

He stared at her for a long beat, and the mask fell away completely. No performance. No charm. Only a man who looked like he had been running for years and had reached a wall. His voice came out quiet. “You matter.”

Elena’s throat tightened. She stood and crossed the space between them. She sat on the sofa beside him, careful to keep a small distance. Her knee brushed his. The contact sent a spark through her skin. Lando’s eyes closed for a moment as if the brush alone eased something.

Elena lifted her hand and touched the edge of his cap, then slid it off gently. His curls sprang free, damp with sweat, flattened at the sides. She ran her fingers through them, slow. His breath hitched. His shoulders loosened, a fraction at a time.

He leaned sideways until his head rested in her lap. He moved like he had reached the end of his strength and finally allowed gravity to win. Elena’s hand continued through his hair, nails lightly scraping his scalp.

His eyes stayed open, staring at the ceiling, blinking slow. “This is better than any physio,” he murmured.

Elena’s mouth curved faintly. “You are biased.”

He turned his face slightly into her thigh, then shut his eyes. Minutes passed. Elena kept stroking his hair. The room felt quieter with him there, even with the wall unit rattling. Outside, the parking lot lights cast pale rectangles on the floor.

Lando’s hand lifted and settled on her knee, fingers curling gently. An ask and an answer in one touch. Elena’s chest tightened. She wanted to protect him. She also wanted to shake him.

“You scared me today,” she said softly. His eyes opened. “Yeah.” “You could have been hurt.” He swallowed. “I know.” Elena’s fingers paused, then resumed. “You ever think about stopping?” A small laugh left him. “Every Sunday.” “Every Monday,” Elena corrected.

He smiled, faint. Elena looked down at him. His face looked softer here. The lines at his mouth relaxed. His lashes lay dark against his cheek.

Her voice came out quiet. “You should have called.” His hand tightened on her knee. “I was ashamed.” Elena’s throat tightened again. “You came anyway.” His eyes held hers, vulnerable. “I came anyway.”

The silence that followed felt different. Less sharp. More like a held breath.

Elena leaned forward and kissed him, slow, careful, her mouth fitting to his like it remembered. His hand slid up her thigh, then to her waist, fingers curling like he needed to hold onto something real. He sat up, pulling her closer. Their foreheads touched for a beat. His eyes stayed on hers.

“This is not an escape,” Elena said, voice low. “This is me. In front of you. You hear me?” His breath shuddered. “I hear you.” Elena swallowed. “If you leave at dawn like you always do, I will break.” His eyes widened. His hand held her waist, steady. “I will stay.”

The promise sounded like a risk. Elena believed he meant it in that moment. She kissed him again, deeper this time, and his body responded with a softness that carried tenderness instead of hunger. His hands moved with care, as if he feared bruising her. Elena felt herself melt into it, felt her chest loosen, felt her own guard lower.

They moved together toward the bedroom, slow steps on creaking floorboards, hands sliding along each other like they needed proof. They didn’t speak as they moved. His mouth found her neck the moment the bedroom door shut behind them. He kissed just beneath her ear, then lower, his breath hot against her skin. She tilted her head for him like it was instinct, like she’d been waiting for him to remember how to be gentle.

Elena tugged at his shirt until it peeled over his head. Her palms slid across his bare chest, fingers curling like she was holding something real for the first time in too long. He let her look at him. She always looked; he usually pretended not to see. Tonight, he let her.

When he kissed her again, it was slow. Mouth open, breathing her in. His hands framed her face, then slid into her hair, then down again, like he couldn’t decide where to hold her. She pulled at his belt, unfastened it with a jerk that made it clatter to the floor. His trousers followed. Hers came off more slowly, he dropped to his knees to take them, tugging her underwear down with them, kissing up the inside of her thigh as he went.

“Lena,” he murmured. Low. Like her name hurt. Like it was the only word that made sense. “Fuck, I missed you.”

She didn’t say anything. Just stepped out of her clothes and climbed onto the bed, watching him the whole way. Waiting to see if he’d follow.

He hovered over her first, kneeling between her legs, running his hands up her calves, her thighs, her hips. Not skipping anything. His thumbs brushed along her inner thighs, parting her knees wider, exposing her slowly. He bent down and kissed just above her clit, then dragged his tongue along her slit with a kind of reverence that made her gasp. He didn’t tease long, just enough to make her arch up, just enough to let her know he wanted to do this.

When he finally moved over her again, hard now, pressing the head of his cock against her, he paused.

“I want you to know,” he said, voice ragged. “I’m not going anywhere. Not tonight.” She looked up at him. "Then prove it."

He pushed in slow. She gasped, body stretching to take him, her hands gripping his arms, nails digging into his skin. He stayed deep for a second, forehead pressed to hers, barely breathing.

“I’m here,” he whispered. Then he moved.

His hips rolled into her with steady, deep thrusts, not chasing anything. He fucked her like he needed her to feel it tomorrow. Like he needed her to believe him. She wrapped her legs around him tighter, pulled him in with every thrust. Her hands found his back, his shoulders, the nape of his neck. Everywhere she touched, he stayed.

He looked down at her like he was memorizing her face this time. Kissed her when she moaned, bit her lip when she whimpered. When she said his name, it cracked in the middle. He kissed her throat. Her jaw. Her collarbone.

“Come for me,” he said against her mouth. “Please. I want to feel it.”

She broke with a cry, hips jerking up into his, her whole body shuddering as her orgasm took her. She clenched around him, and he groaned, low and raw, then fucked her harder, deeper, chasing his own. He gripped her hips, buried himself to the hilt, and came with his face against her neck, breath hot and shaking.

They didn’t move for a while. He stayed inside her, softening slowly. She kept her arms around him like if she let go, he’d vanish. He didn’t pull away. He didn’t turn over. Eventually, he kissed her shoulder. Then again, just beneath her ear. She reached back and tangled her fingers in his hair.

After, the room held dim quiet. The air felt warmer, heavier, filled with the scent of skin and clean sheets that had lost their crispness. Elena lay on her side, one arm under her pillow, hair spilling across the cotton. Lando lay behind her with his chest pressed to her back, an arm thrown over her waist.

His breathing had slowed. His fingers flexed once against her stomach, then settled, as if his body still searched for reassurance even in sleep.

Elena listened. Outside, a car rolled into the parking lot, tyres crunching on gravel. A door slammed. Voices drifted, then faded. Somewhere farther away, the city hummed, distant and alive. Lando shifted, pressing closer. His face tucked into the back of her neck. His breath warmed her skin.

A small twitch ran through him, shoulders tightening for a second, then easing. Another twitch followed, more subtle, like a dream pulling at his muscles. Elena placed her hand over his forearm, feeling the tension under his skin.

“It is okay,” she whispered, voice barely sound.

His grip tightened around her waist in response, then softened. He exhaled, long and shaky, and his body settled again. Elena stayed awake.

She stared into the dark and listened to his breathing, steady now, a rhythm she could count. Her hand rested on his arm, fingers stroking slow circles, a quiet anchor.

This felt like something real. The thought scared her more than the crash footage ever had.

Elena lay there with the weight of him behind her, warm and vulnerable, and had no idea what she was supposed to do with a moment that felt like a beginning.

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London

Nora’s flat smelled like hairspray, citrus cleanser, and the kind of candle that promised “coastal linen” and delivered vanilla.

Elena stood in front of the narrow hallway mirror with a borrowed top half on and an eyeliner pencil in her hand, staring at her own reflection like it might offer a verdict. The top was Nora’s, black satin that caught the light and made Elena look like she belonged somewhere louder than a sponsor suite. She tugged the hem down, then up, then gave up and let it sit where it wanted.

Nora leaned on the doorframe behind her, arms folded, grinning like she had engineered this evening with the precision of a race strategist.

“You look dangerous,” Nora said. Elena angled the pencil toward her eye. “I look like I am about to make poor choices.” “That is the point.” Nora stepped forward and snatched the pencil from Elena’s hand. “Hold still.”

Elena held still, eyes lifted. Nora drew a clean wing in one swift motion, then pulled back to assess her work like a painter.

“See,” Nora said, satisfied. “Now you look like the kind of woman who blocks a man and sleeps eight hours.” Elena huffed a laugh. “You talk like that is a myth.” Nora tossed the pencil onto the counter and grabbed Elena’s chin gently, turning her face side to side. “You have the face for boundaries. You keep refusing to use it.”

Elena’s phone buzzed inside her bag on the floor. The sound was small, yet it reached under Elena’s skin and hooked something.

Nora’s eyes flicked toward the bag at once. “There it is.” Elena kept her gaze on the mirror. “Could be a client.” “Could be the Pope,” Nora said. “Same effect on your shoulders.”

Elena exhaled through her nose. The buzzing came again, longer this time, as if whoever held the other end had decided patience was optional.

Nora crossed the room, scooped the bag up, and cradled it like contraband. “Rule tonight. You reach for that phone, you lose your drink.” Elena turned, one brow raised. “You cannot make rules in my life.” Nora smiled sweetly. “Watch me.”

The bag buzzed again. Nora held it away from her body like it might bite, then marched into the kitchen and stuffed it into a drawer beneath the cutlery. Elena followed, half amused, half furious, fully aware she had never asked Nora to do this and still felt relief anyway.

“Nora,” Elena said, voice tight. “That is my phone.” Nora shut the drawer with a firm push. “Correct. Your phone. Your life. Your choice. Your pattern.” She leaned back against the counter. “Tonight, the pattern gets a night off.”

Elena stared at the drawer. A smaller buzz vibrated through the wood, muffled, insistent.

Nora’s gaze stayed on Elena’s face. “You promised yourself daylight.” Elena swallowed. The word daylight sat in her throat like a dare. “I promised myself a lot of things,” Elena said. Nora’s expression softened. “Then keep one promise. One.”

Elena looked away, reached for the lipstick Nora had tossed onto the counter, and applied it with the concentration of someone defusing a bomb. Her hands shook slightly, and she hated herself for it.

“What race is it this weekend?” Nora asked, casual. Elena’s mouth tightened. “Zandvoort.” Nora nodded, as if confirming a suspicion. “So, he is in Europe.” Elena pressed her lips together, then released them. “Yes.” Nora lifted a finger. “Meaning this is not midnight panic from Singapore. This is a choice, he’s choosing to call you at night, not during the day, again.” Elena’s chest tightened. “You enjoy being right.” “I enjoy you being alive,” Nora replied. Elena turned back toward the mirror, adjusted the strap of the satin top, and forced her shoulders down. “Sam texted earlier.” Nora’s face brightened. “Good. Sam exists.” “Sam exists,” Elena agreed, and the words carried more weight than they should have. Nora stepped close and tucked a loose strand of Elena’s hair behind her ear. “Tell me you want to see him.” Elena met her eyes in the mirror. “I want to see who I become when I see him.” Nora’s smile softened into something proud and fierce. “That is my girl.”

The drawer buzzed again.

Nora slapped her palm on the countertop. “Ignore it.”

Elena nodded once. She grabbed her jacket from the chair and moved toward the front door before her resolve could evaporate.

They left the flat in a gust of night air that smelled like wet pavement and fried food from a shop on the corner. London held summer in its teeth, warm and restless, with a breeze that carried old rain and exhaust. The streetlights cast slick reflections on the road. Cars hissed past with tyres cutting through shallow puddles.

Nora linked her arm through Elena’s as they walked. “You look like you belong in a music video.” Elena snorted. “I look like I borrowed a top and got bullied into eyeliner.” “That is every music video,” Nora said.

They reached the bar in Hackney ten minutes later, tucked behind a row of shops, windows fogged with condensation and laughter. Inside, warm air wrapped around them. Music thumped low in the background, bass vibrating through the floorboards. The bar smelled like citrus peels, beer, and perfume layered over old wood.

Sam stood near the back, half turned toward the door like he had been watching for them. He wore black jeans and a faded band tee, hair messy in a way that looked intentional yet lived-in. A small smile spread across his face when he saw Elena, and it reached his eyes.

“Elena,” he said, stepping forward. “Nora,” he added, giving Nora a quick hug that looked familiar, then turning back to Elena with an ease that made her shoulders loosen. “Hi,” Elena said. Sam’s gaze flicked over her outfit. “You look dangerously good.” Elena’s mouth curved. “That is the eyeliner.” Nora clapped her hands once. “I will get drinks. You two, speak like people who have met before.”

She disappeared toward the bar, leaving Elena and Sam facing each other with a space between them that felt like a question.

Sam gestured toward a small table near the wall. “I stole us a corner. Sounded strategic.”

Elena followed him, sliding into the booth seat. The vinyl was worn, slightly tacky from years of spilled drinks. Sam sat opposite, elbows on the table, hands wrapped around his pint.

“How was Hungary?” he asked. Elena blinked. “You watched.” Sam shrugged lightly. “I saw clips. Plus, you came back with the kind of eyes that said you survived a war.” Elena let out a breath that turned into a laugh. “That obvious.” “Only to people who pay attention,” Sam said. Nora returned with three drinks, slid one toward Elena. “Vodka soda. Lime. Minimal drama.” Elena raised the glass in mock salute. “Thank you for my disciplined beverage.”

Nora sat beside her, angled her body so she could keep Sam in view.

Sam leaned forward slightly. “How is your work going? Outside racing.”

The question landed clean, like he had opened a door Elena rarely used.

Elena’s chest eased. “Busy. I shot a gig at Camden Assembly last week. Singer threw himself into the crowd. Landed on a man with a pint. The pint survived. The man ended up in hospital.” Sam laughed, head tipping back. “That sounds accurate.” Elena continued, warming. “I edited a fashion campaign for a small brand in Dalston. They wanted ‘authentic street energy,’ which meant they paid for a model and then asked her to look like she had never seen a camera.” Nora snorted. “Fiction.” Sam grinned at Elena. “And what did you want?” Elena paused. The question was gentle, yet it reached under the surface. “I wanted to sleep,” she said, and the honesty made Nora laugh again. Sam’s smile stayed soft. “Fair.”

They talked. Music. Photography. London venues with sticky floors and beautiful lighting. Sam told a story about a rehearsal where the drummer insisted on playing with oven mitts as a warm-up exercise, then forgot to take them off for the first song. Elena leaned in, laughing, the sound bright and real. Nora watched her with an expression that bordered on triumph.

Elena felt herself relax in the way she always did around people who wanted her mind more than her availability. Sam asked about lenses, about composition, about how she found a moment in a crowd and froze it without killing it. He spoke about songwriting like it was architecture, building emotion from small precise choices.

At some point, his hand drifted across the table and brushed her fingers. Light contact. Casual. Elena’s breath hitched. Sam’s eyes flicked to her face, checking her reaction, then his hand stayed where it was, resting against hers like it belonged. Elena left her hand there. Nora raised her drink as if to toast the moment.

Sam’s thumb stroked lightly along Elena’s knuckle, almost absent-minded.

“You have a show next week,” Elena said, voice softer. “At that place in Dalston.” Sam’s eyebrows rose, pleased. “You remember.” Elena shrugged. “I have a calendar.” Sam’s smile deepened. “Come. Bring your camera. Shoot what you want. Full access. No brand briefs. No deliverables.” Elena felt the offer hit somewhere tender. “That sounds risky.” Sam leaned closer. “Risky how?” Elena held his gaze. “Risky because I would enjoy it.” Nora made a noise that sounded like an exaggerated cough. “She would enjoy it. She would have fun, smile, laugh. She would become a person.”

Elena elbowed Nora lightly, smiling despite herself.

Sam laughed. “I would like you there.” Elena’s throat tightened. She nodded once, small. “Okay.”

Sam’s hand tightened briefly against hers, a quiet pulse of satisfaction.

The evening moved in small bright fragments. Another drink. A shared plate of chips. Nora pulling faces at a couple arguing near the toilets. Elena laughing until her cheeks hurt. Sam leaning in to speak near her ear when the music rose, breath warm, his voice low.

At one point, Sam asked, “Are you seeing anyone?”

Elena’s body went still for half a beat. Nora’s gaze sharpened beside her. Sam’s expression stayed open. No assumption, no pressure, only curiosity. Elena swallowed. Her mind flashed to hotel corridors, to stairwells, to a cap brim shadowing eyes that asked for her like she was a secret. It flashed to Hungary, to his head in her lap, to his promise to stay, to the way his arm had held her through sleep. It flashed to silence after.

Elena forced herself to answer with the truth that fit in the room. “There is someone,” she said. Sam’s eyes stayed on hers. “Is it serious?” Elena’s mouth tightened. “It is intense, but no, it’s not,” She paused. “There’s no commitment there.”

Nora’s breath left her in a quiet sound, halfway between laughter and frustration.

Sam nodded slowly, absorbing it. “Does he treat you well?” Elena’s chest tightened again. “He treats me, when he wants,” she said carefully. “He struggles with the rest.”

Sam’s expression softened. He took his hand away from hers, slow, respectful. The loss of contact made Elena feel cold in a sudden stripe.

“Okay,” Sam said. His voice held acceptance, yet his eyes held something else too, a quiet disappointment he did not throw at her. Nora shifted closer, shoulder brushing Elena’s. “Another round,” Nora declared, too bright, standing before the moment could turn sharp.

Elena watched Nora weave through the crowd toward the bar.

Sam leaned back, fingers tapping lightly against his glass. “You deserve steady,” he said. Elena stared at him. “That is easy to say.” Sam’s mouth twitched. “True.”

A beat passed, music filling the gap.

Sam’s gaze stayed on her face. “If you ever want steady, you know where to find me.”

Elena’s throat tightened, and she hated that she felt like crying in a bar with neon lights and sticky tables.

She forced a smile. “I know.” Nora returned with drinks and an exaggerated grin, plunking the glasses down like she was slamming a gavel. “We are having fun. We are alive. We are independent women.”

Sam laughed, and Elena laughed too, grateful for the rescue.

They stayed another hour, talking lighter, keeping the edges rounded. Elena kept watching Sam’s face, aware of his patience, aware of how he gave her space without punishing her for needing it. That kindness felt unfamiliar in a way that scared her.

When they finally left, night air hit Elena’s skin like a reset. London had cooled. The street smelled of damp brick and cigarettes. The sky held a faint glow from city light, stars drowned out. Nora walked between Elena and Sam like a chaperone with an agenda.

At the corner where Sam’s route split, he stopped and faced Elena. “Text me when you get home,” he said. Elena nodded. “I will.”

Sam hesitated, then leaned in and kissed her cheek. Soft. Quick. His lips lingered for a fraction longer than friendly, then he stepped back.

“Goodnight, Elena,” he said. “Goodnight,” she replied.

He walked away, hands in pockets, shoulders relaxed, disappearing into the city like he belonged there.

Nora watched him go, then turned toward Elena with a look that held both approval and warning. “You felt that.” Elena swallowed. “Yes.” Nora linked her arm through Elena’s again and steered her toward the tube. “And you felt guilty for feeling it.” Elena exhaled. “Yes.” Nora’s voice softened. “Guilt means you are still chained. It does not mean you are wrong.”

They took the tube in a quiet carriage that smelled like metal and perfume and old heat. Elena stared at her reflection in the dark window, eyeliner slightly smudged at the corners, lips parted like she had been laughing too much.

Nora walked her home and came upstairs, ushering Elena inside like she was delivering a fragile package. Elena’s flat looked exactly as she had left it. Camera bag by the sofa. Laptop on the coffee table. A dish in the sink. The quiet hum of the fridge.

Nora went straight to Elena’s bedroom and pulled the duvet down like she was prepping a patient for bed. “You are sleeping. I will accept no arguments.” Elena stood in the doorway, amused and exhausted. “You cannot keep parenting me.” Nora pointed at her. “I can. I will. Now, phone.” Elena blinked. “My phone is at your flat.” Nora’s expression turned victorious. “Incorrect. I brought it.”

She pulled Elena’s phone from her own bag and held it up. Elena’s stomach lurched.

Nora raised a brow. “You want to check it.” Elena swallowed. “Yes.” Nora nodded. “Good. Check it. In front of me. So you do not spiral alone.”

Elena took the phone with fingers that felt clumsy. The screen lit. A row of missed calls sat at the top. Beneath, a stack of messages from Lando that made Elena’s chest tighten.

She scrolled.

Lando: You up? Lando: Where are you? Lando: Call me Lando: Please Lando: Rough day Lando: Could use you Lando: Are you ignoring me? Lando: Elena. Lando: Guess you are busy Lando: Sorry Lando: I am being stupid Lando: Forget it.

Elena stared at the last line until her eyes burned.

Nora’s voice came soft behind her. “He is in it.” Elena’s throat tightened. “He is always in it.” Nora crossed her arms. “What do you want to do?”

Elena’s thumbs moved without permission. She opened the reply box. Typed. Her pulse roared in her ears as she watched the words appear, then she erased them. Typed again. Erased again. Her hands shook. Nora watched, silent, letting Elena fight with herself.

Elena typed: Call me in the morning. She erased it. She typed: You only want me when you are falling apart. She erased it. She typed: I cannot keep saving you. She erased it. Her chest rose and fell, breath shallow.

Nora stepped closer and placed a hand on Elena’s shoulder. “You do not owe him instant access.” Elena’s eyes stung. “He sounds scared.” Nora’s grip tightened gently. “He sounds used to you fixing it.”

Elena swallowed hard. Her thumbs hovered, then went still. She locked the phone. Silence filled the room like water.

Nora exhaled. “Okay. Bed.”

Elena nodded, numb. She changed out of Nora’s satin top, folded it carefully, set it on the chair for return. She washed her face, watching eyeliner run into grey streaks in the sink. She brushed her teeth and stared at her reflection with wet lashes and red-rimmed eyes.

Nora stood in the doorway like a guard. “You have a choice. You can reply. You can sleep. You can reply tomorrow in daylight.”

Elena crawled into bed and pulled the duvet up. Her body felt heavy, drained from laughter and restraint.

Nora placed the phone on the bedside table, screen down. “I am leaving it there. You touch it, you wake yourself up. That is on you.” Elena let out a breath that sounded like surrender. “You are cruel.” Nora’s smile softened. “I am kind.” She leaned down and kissed Elena’s forehead. “Goodnight.” “Goodnight,” Elena whispered.

Nora left, footsteps fading down the hall, the front door clicking shut.

Elena lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling. Her mind replayed Sam’s cheek kiss, the softness of it, the steadiness offered without demand. Then it replayed Lando’s messages, the escalating urgency, the way her name sat alone on the screen like a hand pounding on glass.

Her chest tightened. Her fingers curled into the duvet. The phone vibrated on the bedside table. The sound was small. It felt huge. The screen lit, bright in the dark, Lando’s name glowing like a flare.

Elena watched it without moving. She held her breath until the vibration stopped, until the light faded, until the room returned to shadow. Her heart kept hammering.

The phone vibrated again, softer this time, as if the person on the other end had begun to doubt. Elena stayed still. She let the glow die again, and she lay there in the dark with tears drying hot on her cheeks, listening to her own breathing until it slowed enough to feel like her own.

🏎️📸🏎️📸🏎️📸🏎️📸🏎️📸🏎️📸🏎️📸🏎️📸

Singapore

Singapore hit Elena like a hand on the chest. Humidity wrapped around her the moment she stepped through the paddock entrance, heavy and slick, clinging to her skin beneath her shirt. Floodlights turned the night into a bright, harsh imitation of daylight, and every surface seemed to sweat. The air smelled of hot concrete, perfume, engine exhaust, and sweet fried dough from a stand somewhere beyond the fences.

Her camera strap dug into her collarbone. The familiar weight usually calmed her. Tonight, it felt like a tether, a reminder of why she was here, what she was supposed to do, what she had promised herself she would keep separate.

A sound rolled across the circuit from the trackside, a deep note that rose and fell as a car pushed through a gear change. It vibrated in her ribs. The city beyond the paddock glowed in neon and glass, skyscrapers watching like tall, indifferent judges. Elena wiped her palm on the side of her jeans and kept walking.

The paddock moved in its usual patterns, only amplified by the heat. People fanned themselves with credentials. Crew members carried equipment cases with sweat darkening the backs of their shirts. A PR handler spoke into a headset, expression tight. Camera operators moved backward like dancers, trusting their rigs and their instincts.

Elena held her pass up at a gate and slipped through, eyes scanning ahead in a reflex she hated.

She saw him anyway. Lando stood near the McLaren space, helmet in hand, laughing with Oscar and two engineers. His posture looked loose, shoulders relaxed, head tilted back slightly as he smiled. Under the floodlights, the papaya orange of the team kit looked almost unreal, bright against the night. He looked fine. Better than fine. Like the last few weeks had never happened.

The sight twisted something in Elena’s chest. That smile had lived on screens lately. Clips. Interviews. Highlight reels. It had failed to land on her in person for a long time. Seeing it now felt like being locked outside a room she once had a key to.

Oscar’s gaze flicked across the paddock and landed on Elena for a beat. His expression stayed neutral, yet it carried an edge that read like recognition. He looked away first, returning to the conversation, leaving Elena feeling seen in the worst way.

Elena forced her eyes forward and kept moving. She reached the sponsor lounge and stepped into cooler air that tried and failed to fight the humidity. The lounge smelled like citrus cleaner and espresso. Branded walls glowed under soft lighting. Staff moved with clipboards and practiced smiles.

Amira Patel stood near a monitor with a schedule in hand, hair sleek, blazer immaculate as if Singapore’s weather held no power over her.

“Elena,” Amira said, voice crisp. “You made it.”

Elena lifted her camera slightly. “Barely.”

Amira’s lips curved, then flattened again as her eyes dropped to the tablet. “We have a lot tonight. Night practice visuals, then some quick interviews, then a few personal content pieces. Two more drivers asked for coverage. Keep it fair, yeah.”

Translation landed clean. Elena understood the real message beneath the professional phrasing. Elena nodded. “Understood.”

Amira’s gaze held hers for a beat longer. “You have been quiet lately.”

Elena kept her face smooth. “Busy.”

Amira studied her, then tapped the schedule. “We start with a paddock walk. Brand wants ‘night energy’ and ‘Singapore glamour.’ Then we catch Lando for thirty seconds near the garage, then we move. No lingering.”

Elena swallowed. “Okay.”

Amira continued as if reading a list could protect them from everything else. “Oscar at nine thirty. Then a partner activation with both. Then we rotate to the other two drivers. Keep your lens moving. People watch patterns.”

Elena nodded again, fingers tightening around her camera body.

Amira leaned closer, voice lower. “You and I both value your career. Stay smart.”

Elena met her eyes. “I plan to.”

Amira gave a small approving nod and gestured toward the exit. “Go. Capture the night. Singapore sells itself.”

Elena stepped back into the paddock and the heat swallowed her again. Floodlights burned white overhead. The track roared in the distance. Fans pressed against barriers near the far end, phones raised, faces lit by screens.

She lifted her camera and began shooting. Wide angles first, the paddock lit like a runway, people moving through pools of light. A mechanic wiping sweat from his neck with a towel. A driver’s visor reflecting the floodlights. A sponsor hostess adjusting her hair with fingers that trembled slightly.

She worked like she always did, hunting moments that looked expensive and real at the same time.

For ten minutes she succeeded. Then she turned, and Lando was closer.

He walked along the edge of the McLaren area with a handler trailing behind him, head slightly down, smile gone. The laugh from earlier had evaporated. He looked more like himself in the way Elena recognized, tension in his jaw, eyes scanning as if he searched for a gap in the crowd to breathe through.

His gaze lifted and found her. The look held no warmth. It held question, annoyance, and something sharp that resembled hurt. Elena raised her camera and shot past him at an angle, focusing on a branded banner behind his shoulder. Professional. Clean. If anyone watched, it looked like work.

Lando kept walking. Elena moved with the flow toward the sponsor activation area, shooting another driver, then a group of executives posing with cocktails they would never finish. She forced her attention outward, toward the job, toward anything except the growing awareness of his proximity.

A hand touched the side of her elbow. Elena flinched and turned.

Amira stood there, phone pressed to her ear, eyes focused. She mouthed: “Two minutes.”

Elena nodded, heart already speeding up.

Amira ended the call and leaned in. “He is free for twenty seconds near the service corridor behind hospitality. Go. Fast.”

Elena’s throat tightened. She wanted to ask for a different plan. She wanted to refuse. She wanted to appear easy, unbothered, professional.

She also wanted to run.

She walked toward the corridor behind hospitality, camera hanging at her chest, palms damp. The crowd thinned as she reached the service area. The air shifted. Less perfume, more damp concrete and electrical heat. Equipment cases lined the walls. A staffer rolled a trolley stacked with bottled water.

Elena stopped near a blank stretch of wall where sponsor signage would look clean behind a subject. She adjusted her settings, hands steady because they had learned to be steady under stress.

Footsteps approached. Lando stepped into the corridor with his cap brim low, hoodie on despite the heat, shoulders tight. A handler lingered near the entrance, then drifted away, leaving the corridor feeling smaller. Lando stopped in front of Elena and stared at her camera as if it offended him.

“Hard to reach,” he said.

Elena raised her lens and framed him without answering. “Look at me.”

He gave her a flat stare. “You heard me.”

Elena took one shot, then another, forcing herself to focus on angles instead of his voice. “I have been busy.”

Lando’s mouth tightened. “Busy with what.”

Elena lowered the camera a fraction. “Life.”

He laughed once, short, bitter. “Right.”

Elena took another shot, then stepped sideways to change the angle. “Chin up.”

Lando obeyed, then spoke through clenched teeth. “You ignored my calls.”

Elena’s grip tightened on the camera. “I saw them.”

“Then why,” he said, voice sharper, “why leave me there?”

Elena’s pulse jumped. “Because I had a choice.”

Lando stared at her, eyes dark under the brim. “A choice to punish me.”

Elena exhaled, slow. “A choice to exist in the daytime, not just the nights when your lonely and feel like shit.”

His jaw flexed. “I needed you.”

Elena’s chest tightened at the vulnerability in his tone, the raw edge under the anger. She forced her voice steady. “You needed relief.”

His eyes flashed. “Same thing.”

Elena shook her head, small. “No.”

Lando took a half step closer. The corridor smelled of sweat and detergent and something metallic. His voice dropped. “Is that what this is? You answer when I feel like hell, you vanish when I ask twice.”

Elena’s throat tightened. The words hit where they always hit, right under her ribs, where she kept her worst soft spots. “You make it sound like a contract,” she said.

“It has been,” he snapped, then caught himself, breath hitching. “It has been what we do.”

Elena stared at him, heat rising in her face that had nothing to do with Singapore. “I have no idea what to do anymore. I cannot keep having this argument.”

Lando’s expression shifted, the anger cracking to reveal something like panic. “Talk to me.”

Elena’s mouth opened.

Amira’s voice cut through the corridor. “Elena. Shot near the lounge. Now.”

Elena turned her head slightly. Amira stood at the corridor entrance, expression neutral, eyes sharp. A staffer beside her held a phone up, waiting for content. Elena looked back at Lando. His gaze held hers like a grip.

“This,” Elena said softly, “this is the problem.”

Lando’s nostrils flared. He leaned closer, voice low and urgent. “After.”

Elena’s chest tightened. She nodded once, small, and hated that her body reacted like it always did when he asked. She lifted the camera again, took two more shots, then stepped back.

Amira’s tone stayed professional. “Thank you. We move.”

Elena turned and walked out of the corridor, camera heavy against her sternum, legs moving on autopilot. She followed Amira toward the lounge, forcing her breathing to slow. Behind her, she felt him watching.

She shot what Amira asked for. A branded cocktail station. A smiling executive. A short clip of the night skyline framed through the hospitality glass. Elena’s hands moved, her face smiled on cue, her mind stayed in the corridor with Lando’s voice saying you ignored my calls.

When the segment ended, Amira touched Elena’s shoulder. “Rotate. Oscar next.”

Elena nodded and walked toward the McLaren space, eyes scanning for Oscar while she fought the urge to look for Lando again.

Oscar stood near the back of the garage area with a bottle of water, face calm. He offered Elena a nod as she approached, then glanced toward the corridor she had left.

“Warm night,” Oscar said.

Elena lifted her camera. “Singapore tries to kill people.”

Oscar’s mouth twitched. “Seems accurate.”

She shot him with clean efficiency. Oscar posed with the ease of someone who cared little about posing. He gave her what she needed, then stepped aside, drinking water, gaze drifting over the paddock.

“Amira keeping you busy,” Oscar said, voice casual.

Elena adjusted focus. “Yes.”

Oscar’s gaze flicked toward Lando’s side of the garage. “He has been restless.”

Elena swallowed. She kept the camera up and gave her normal answer. “Race weekend.”

Oscar watched her for a beat. “You two have a habit of tense air.”

Elena lowered the camera slightly. “That is a poetic observation from you.”

Oscar shrugged. “I notice patterns.”

Elena held his gaze, then lifted the camera again to end the exchange. “Thank you. That is enough.”

Oscar stepped back with a nod. “Good luck.”

The words carried more meaning than they should have. Elena pretended to ignore it and moved toward the partner activation area.

Lando appeared there a moment later, cap brim lifted now, face arranged for cameras. He stood beside Oscar, shoulders squared, smile in place. He looked like a different person from the boy in the corridor. Elena raised her camera and shot them together. Two drivers under floodlights, sponsor logo behind, night air shimmering.

Lando’s eyes found hers through the lens. His smile stayed. His gaze did not. He held the look too long for comfort. Elena forced herself to look away and shoot Oscar, then the executive, then the branded display.

When the activation ended, the paddock grew louder as night practice approached. Crew members moved with increased urgency. Engines fired in the distance and the sound hit the air like a wave.

Elena moved through the chaos, filming short clips, capturing reflections in visors, hands tightening straps, radios crackling. Sweat ran down her spine. Her hair stuck to the back of her neck. The floodlights made her skin look glossy on her phone screen when she checked framing.

She kept working, because work gave her a role. Work gave her structure. Work let her move without explaining why her chest felt tight.

Then the cars went out.

The sound rose, sharp and fast, echoing off buildings and barriers. Singapore’s circuit always sounded closer than it should, the roar trapped between concrete walls and glass towers. The air vibrated with it.

Elena stood near the garage lane and filmed a car blasting past. The wind of it hit her face. She tasted rubber. Across the lane, Lando stood near the pit wall, helmet on, body language focused. Engineers spoke into headsets. A mechanic adjusted a strap.

Elena lifted her camera and shot him from the side, a clean profile with floodlight glare behind. She captured the tilt of his head, the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands flexed like he tried to release nervous energy through his fingers.

He turned slightly, as if he felt the lens, and their eyes met through the visor.

Even behind tinted plastic, she recognized the look. He wanted her attention. He wanted her response. He wanted her to prove she still belonged to him.

Elena turned away, forced herself to shoot another driver’s garage, another sponsor display, another clip of fans screaming as cars flew by.

Yet every few minutes she felt his gaze like heat. The session continued. Cars came in and went out again. Crew members shouted. Radios crackled. The paddock lights stayed hard and bright, turning sweat into sparkle.

Elena’s body ran on adrenaline and exhaustion. Her thoughts kept looping back to the corridor.

Hard to reach. You ignored my calls. I needed you.

Her own words echoed too.

I have no idea what to do anymore.

When practice ended, the paddock shifted into post-session chaos. People streamed toward hospitality for debriefs, drinks, content. Elena followed Amira’s instructions, grabbing quick clips, taking stills of drivers wiping sweat from their faces, capturing branded moments that looked effortless and cost millions.

Every time Elena moved, she felt Lando somewhere nearby, orbiting without touching.

She saw him laugh with a crew member, then turn serious again. She saw him rub a hand over his face, then force a smile for a passing camera. She saw him glance toward her, then away, as if pride fought with need.

Amira kept Elena moving. “Two minutes here.” “Three shots there.” “Send selects to the client.” “Stay visible.”

The constant motion kept Elena from collapsing into her own thoughts. Then a gap opened.

A moment where Amira’s phone rang and she stepped away to handle it, leaving Elena standing near a stack of equipment cases with her camera in hand and sweat cooling on her skin.

Elena looked up. Lando stood near the edge of the motorhome corridor, half turned away, shoulders tense. Oscar walked past him and disappeared inside a hospitality unit. Lando stayed outside, alone, cap in his hand now, hair damp, curls stuck to his forehead.

He looked over once, gaze landing on Elena like a pull. Elena’s chest tightened. She took a step forward without deciding to. Then she stopped.

She felt the weight of her own choices from the last few months. The stairwell. The Airbnb. Zandvoort messages glowing in the dark. Sam’s cheek kiss. Nora’s insistence on daylight. She looked at Lando, at the way he hovered on the edge of his own world, and felt both tenderness and anger rise together.

Lando turned away and started walking toward the motorhome, steps steady, posture controlled. He never looked back.

Elena stood still as he disappeared into the bright corridor light and the closed door swallowed him. The sound of the paddock continued around her, laughter and footsteps and distant engines starting up again for another session.

She lowered her camera and began packing up her gear with hands that felt too slow, as if her body resisted moving forward. Cards into cases. Lens cap on. Strap adjusted. Bag zipped.

She finished and lifted the bag onto her shoulder. The weight settled. Elena stood for a second longer, staring at the door he had gone through, the floodlights harsh above, the heat pressing in.

She understood with a clarity that tasted like salt. This could not keep going like this.

🏎️📸🏎️📸🏎️📸🏎️📸🏎️📸🏎️📸🏎️📸🏎️📸

Singapore at four in the morning felt like a dream somebody refused to wake from. Neon bled through the hotel curtains in thin, stubborn lines. The air outside the glass pressed damp and warm, as if the city kept breathing against the building. Elena stood barefoot on the carpet with one shoulder bare, her shirt hanging loose and skewed from half-changing, half-giving up. Her hair stuck to the back of her neck. Sweat had dried, then returned again, a second skin the hotel air-conditioning failed to strip away.

Her laptop sat open on the desk, timeline paused mid-export. A sponsor reel waited to render. A folder of selects waited to be captioned. Her camera bag lay unzipped on the floor like a mouth. She had been staring at the same two frames for five minutes, forcing herself to choose which version of a man to sell to a client who wanted “authentic grit” with a clean finish.

She clicked between them anyway. One frame: Lando smiling under floodlights, bright and easy, a perfect headline. The other: Lando in the garage after the session, helmet off, face hollow, eyes too raw to hide.

Elena’s fingers hovered over the trackpad. Her eyelids felt heavy. Her nerves felt wired. Exhaustion had taken on a sharp edge, making every sound in the room feel louder than it should.

A knock hit the door. Elena froze. Her heart punched hard once, then started a fast, angry rhythm. The knock came again, louder, uneven. No rhythm. No polite pause. A hand with urgency behind it. She stared at the door, and a wave of heat rose through her chest that had nothing to do with the weather.

She crossed the room, each step measured, and looked through the peephole. Cap brim low. Hoodie up. Shoulders slumped. A man standing too close to the door, as if distance would make him disappear.

Elena opened it.

Lando stood there breathing hard through his nose, hair damp and flattened, sweat dried on his forehead and returned again at the temples. His eyes looked wrecked. Red at the rims, glossy with fury and fatigue. His hoodie clung at the collar. He smelled like heat and deodorant and the faint chemical sweetness of an energy drink. He swallowed once. His mouth opened like he meant to speak. Nothing came out.

Elena held the door, face blank. “You found my room.”

His eyes flicked to hers. “Move.”

The word came out rough, scraped. He pushed past her before she decided whether to let him, shoulder brushing hers with a familiar entitlement that made Elena’s stomach tighten. She shut the door and turned the lock. The click sounded too loud.

Lando paced the room immediately, hands in his hair, cap tossed onto the bed, then snatched again and thrown onto the chair like he could not stand still long enough to let an object stay put. He moved between the desk and the window, then back again, like the walls were closing in.

Elena stayed by the door. Her arms crossed over her bare shoulder, fingers digging into her own skin to keep herself steady.

“You ignored me,” he said, voice sharp.

Elena blinked once. “Hello to you too.”

His laugh came out harsh. “You did it again. You left me there.”

Elena’s pulse thudded. “You called during Zandvoort.”

His head snapped toward her. “I needed you.”

“You always need me during a bad race weekend,” Elena said. Her voice stayed calm. The calm cost her effort.

Lando’s chest rose and fell fast. “You heard my messages.”

Elena nodded once. “Yes.”

His eyes flashed. “And you chose silence.”

Elena’s jaw tightened. “I chose sleep. I chose my own night. I chose a life that runs even when you spiral.”

He stopped pacing, shoulders rigid, gaze burning into her like a challenge.

“You knew I was having a rough day,” he said.

Elena held his gaze. “You have rough days. You have rough weeks. You have rough seasons.”

He flinched, then pushed forward again, anger taking control of his legs. “You make it sound like I enjoy it.”

“I think you enjoy the relief,” Elena said, voice low. “You enjoy the part where I fix it.”

Lando’s mouth twisted. “I came here because everything out there feels fake.”

Elena felt the old pull in her chest, the one he triggered every time he said something that sounded like trust. She refused to let it soften her.

“You came here because you saw me hold my boundary and you hated it,” she said.

His brows drew together. “Stop acting like you know what goes on in my head.”

Elena stepped forward, slow, controlled, leaving the door behind her. “I know the pattern. I know you.”

His gaze dropped to her bare shoulder, then snapped back to her face, frustration tightening his features like a fist.

“I sat in debrief while people replayed my mistake from ten angles,” he said, words tumbling out now, fast and heated. “Every question, every look, every person with a headset acting like they can measure my worth with a stopwatch. Then I walked through hospitality and people smiled at me like they were doing me a favour. I kept thinking, fine, I will call Elena, I will hear a voice that feels real.”

Elena’s throat tightened. “And when I did not answer, you came here.”

“Yes,” he snapped. “Because I needed to see you.”

Elena inhaled, slow. “You needed somewhere soft.”

His eyes narrowed. “You are cruel tonight.”

Elena’s laugh came out sharp. “Cruel. That is rich.”

He stared at her. His voice dropped, tighter. “I hate that you can disappear from me.”

Elena’s chest tightened. “You disappear from me.”

His jaw flexed. “I am here.”

“You arrive at four in the morning,” Elena said. “You vanish in daylight.”

His expression shifted, pain sliding under the anger. He looked away, then back, like he fought with words.

“Elena,” he said, voice rough. “You are the only place I feel like myself.”

The line hit her like it always did. It cracked something open. It also made her furious.

“You keep saying that like it excuses everything,” she said, voice steady. “Like it buys you access.”

He took a step closer. “It is true.”

Elena lifted her hand between them, palm out, a stop sign. “Truth with zero action means nothing.”

Lando’s breath hitched. His eyes flicked to her hand, then back to her face. “What do you want from me.”

Elena’s fingers curled, then relaxed. She swallowed hard, forcing the words out clean. “I have told you what I want from you. I have told you repeatedly. This is the last time,” she said. “Last time I have this argument. Last time I stand in a room with you at four a.m. while you ask for comfort and offer chaos.”

Lando’s face went still. For a second he looked like he had been slapped. “Elena,” he said, voice lower, warning threaded through it.

Elena held his gaze. “Hear me.”

He swallowed. His shoulders rose and fell once. He stayed silent.

“I do not trust you,” Elena continued. The sentence came out calm, and that calm scared her more than shouting. “I trust that you feel a lot. I trust that you mean it in the moment. I trust that you can look at me like I am oxygen. I also trust that the moment ends and you return to the world that owns you, and you forget what you promised, you forget about my feelings.”

Lando’s eyes widened. His mouth opened.

Elena kept going. “You want me to believe you. You want me to answer every call. You want me to stay available. You want me to fold myself around your schedule. You want me to be your relief and your secret and your emergency contact. But you don’t want to give anything in return. You have never earned that.”

His throat bobbed. “I have tried.”

Elena’s laugh came out short. “No, you haven’t. Trying means consistency. Trying means you showing up before you break.”

He flinched, anger rising again. “I am showing up.”

“You are showing up in the only way you know,” Elena said. “At night, when you hurt and you want me to absorb it by fucking me and then leaving.”

Lando’s hands clenched at his sides. “You act like I am using you.”

Elena’s gaze held steady. “You are.”

Silence slammed into the room. The air-conditioning rattled. A distant elevator dinged in the hallway. Neon light pulsed faintly against the curtain edge like a heartbeat. Lando looked at the floor, then at the desk, then back at her. His eyes shone in a way that looked like rage and fear tangled together.

“I hate myself for it,” he said, voice rough.

Elena’s chest tightened. She waited.

He dragged a hand down his face. “I walk through that paddock and I feel like a product. Everybody wants a piece. Fans, media, sponsors. Team. My own brain. Then I come here and you look at me like I am a person.”

Elena’s throat tightened. “Then treat me like one.”

His eyes snapped back to hers. “I am scared.”

The confession came out raw, stripped.

Elena’s breath caught. “Of what.”

He paced once, two steps, then stopped again, as if movement failed to help.

“Of ruining you,” he said. “Of people thinking you get work because of me. Of you getting dragged into my mess. Of you seeing me fail when I promised I would be better. Of calling it something real and then watching it die because I cannot hold it together.”

Elena stared at him. “So, you keep it in the dark.”

His jaw clenched. “I keep you safe.”

Elena’s voice went cold. “You keep yourself safe.”

Lando flinched.

Elena stepped closer, closing the gap, forcing him to stay present. “You do not get to call hiding me protection. You do it because it makes your life easier.”

His eyes glistened. He looked furious with himself. “Maybe.”

Elena’s chest rose and fell. Exhaustion pressed behind her eyes. “Not maybe. You do. And I am tired.”

Lando’s voice softened. “I know.”

“I am tired of being the place you run, the place you walk over,” Elena said. “I want to be the place you walk toward.”

His breathing turned uneven. He stared at her as if he had never heard someone say it that plainly.

“I want to believe you,” Elena added, quieter. “I also believe your habits. Those habits have hurt me, continuously.”

Lando’s gaze dropped to her lips. His voice turned low, urgent. “Elena.”

She held his gaze. “This is where you show me.”

He stepped forward, close enough that his body heat reached her. His hands hovered at her waist without touching, as if he waited for permission.

“Tell me what you want,” he said.

Elena’s throat tightened. “I want trust back. I want you to earn it.”

His eyes searched her face. “How?”

Elena swallowed, forcing clarity through the haze. “You stop with the late-night knock cycle. You call me in daylight. You speak to me when you feel fine. You let me exist in your life in front of people who matter. You give me a place that does not depend on your pain.”

Lando’s jaw worked. “That is a lot.”

Elena nodded once. “Yes.”

His voice turned sharp again, defensive. “You think I can flip a switch?”

Elena’s gaze stayed steady. “If you want me, yeah. I think you can choose effort.”

He stared at her, then his shoulders sagged. “I want to.”

The words came out small, honest. Elena’s chest tightened. The softness in his voice cracked something in her. She hated that it did. She reached up and touched his cheek with her fingertips, brief contact, warm skin under her hand. Lando leaned into it like he had been starving.

Elena pulled her hand away. “I want you too, but that doesn’t matter anymore. You actually have to do it.”

His eyes darkened. “I will.”

Elena’s pulse hammered. She felt the familiar gravity, the way her body responded to him with speed her pride resented. She also felt the knife edge of her boundary, the line she had drawn and refused to move.

“Tonight does not erase anything,” she said.

His gaze held hers. “I know.”

“You cannot use this as proof,” Elena continued. “You cannot come here, break apart, touch me, then vanish again and pretend the night meant commitment.”

Lando’s throat bobbed. “I hear you.”

Elena stared at him, searching his face for the usual deflection, the joke, the grin, anything that would make this easy. None came.

His hands finally touched her waist, gentle, careful. His thumb stroked once, as if asking.

Elena closed her eyes for a beat, then opened them again. “We shouldn’t do this. This is messy.”

His mouth twisted. “That is our brand.”

A laugh escaped her, short, cracked. It turned into a breath that shook. Lando leaned in and kissed her.

The kiss held fury and need and relief, all tangled. It was hotter than the corridor fights, rougher than the tender night in Hungary. His hands slid up her back, gripping like he feared she would push him away. Elena kissed him back with the same ferocity, nails catching in his hoodie, pulling him closer.

Their bodies moved without a plan, step by step, stumbling toward the bed. The laptop remained open on the desk, export bar creeping forward like it belonged to a different world. Neon light pulsed at the curtain edge. The room felt too small for what they carried into it.

Elena broke the kiss long enough to press her forehead to his. Her voice came out low. “This does not fix it.”

Lando’s breath hitched. “I know.”

Elena’s fingers fisted in his hoodie. “Then earn me.”

His eyes locked on hers, raw. “I will.”

Elena believed he meant it in this second. She also knew belief had a short shelf life with him. She kissed him again anyway, because desire had never cared about logic, and because sometimes she wanted to feel something clean even inside a mess.

The kiss hit like a detonation. No warning. No finesse. Elena’s mouth opened under his, and Lando swallowed the sound she made like it was something he needed to stay upright. Their teeth clicked. His hand went to her jaw, rougher than usual, fingers curling to hold her steady like she might bolt.

She pulled at his hoodie, impatient, and he helped rip it over his head. His shirt came off with it. She didn’t stop to look, she already knew the shape of him, the planes and lines and sweat-slick muscle. But tonight, he felt heavier under her hands. Weighted with something beyond exhaustion. He reached for her in kind, palms skating under her shirt, dragging the fabric up and over in one motion. He dropped it behind them, then paused.

She was bare beneath. No bra. No warnings.

His breath stuttered.

Elena sat back on her heels, chest rising and falling in shallow pulls, her eyes locked on his face. See me, she thought. Don’t flinch. Lando didn’t flinch. He reached out slowly, both hands cupping her breasts, thumbs brushing her nipples with a worship that hurt more than lust.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” he said, voice ragged. “I never say it enough.”

“No,” she said. “You don’t.”

He nodded once. Like he took the hit. Like he’d earned it. Then he moved. Fast.

She found herself under him, spine pressed into the mattress, one of his knees wedged between her thighs. His mouth latched to her collarbone, teeth scraping lightly, and she gasped when he bit, not to hurt, but to mark. He kissed a line down her chest, taking a nipple into his mouth and sucking slowly, lazily, tongue flicking until her hips rolled up against him. She felt his cock hard against her leg through his joggers, thick and pulsing, and she reached between them with one hand, palming him through the fabric.

His groan came from somewhere deep in his chest. “Fuck.”

“Off,” she said, tugging at his waistband.

He stripped without argument. His cock sprung free, flushed and already slick at the tip. She let her eyes rake over him, and this time, he let her look, breathing hard, watching her with something close to worship and devastation all at once.

When he reached for her shorts, Elena lifted her hips. He peeled them down, slow now, eyes locked to the line of her body as more of her was revealed. Her underwear came next. He knelt between her knees and dragged his hands up the inside of her thighs, spreading them gently.

His voice dropped, hoarse. “I missed this. I missed you.”

“You miss the idea of me,” she whispered, heart thudding.

He looked up, eyes shining under the hotel lamplight. “No. I miss you.”

Then he bent forward and pressed a kiss to the soft skin just above her clit. One. Then another. Then he opened his mouth and tasted her like he had a point to prove. His tongue slid between her folds, slow and wide, then circled her clit in a way that made her jolt. Her hips arched. Her hand flew to his curls, holding him there.

“Lando. Fuck.”

He moaned into her, the vibration making her legs tremble. He licked and sucked with a rhythm that was deliberate, steady, each stroke meant to make her feel him long after he stopped. She clenched around nothing, thighs twitching around his head, and when she finally gasped his name again, broken, he pulled back, lips wet, panting.

“You close?”

Elena nodded, one hand flung over her face. “God, yes, but,”

“Later,” he said. “I want you like this.”

He didn’t give her time to reply. He rose onto his knees, lined himself up, and pushed in slow. The stretch made her cry out, her body struggling to take him fully. He was thick, deep, and determined not to rush. Inch by inch, he fed himself inside her, eyes glued to where their bodies met.

“Always so fucking tight,” he muttered, almost reverent. “Like you were made for me.”

She let out a shaky breath and wrapped her legs around his hips. “Then move.”

He did. He started slow, grinding into her with long, deep strokes, hitting that place that made her moan every time. But the restraint didn’t last. It never did with them. The pace quickened, his control slipping, hips snapping harder, breath rough against her ear. His hands gripped her wrists, pinning them above her head, his weight holding her in place as he fucked her like he was afraid she’d disappear if he blinked.

Their bodies slapped together with a rhythm that didn’t pretend to be pretty. This wasn’t about beauty. It was need. Every thrust said something he couldn’t say. Every moan she gave back was a threat, a plea, a promise.

“I hate you for this,” she whispered. “I hate that I still want you.”

He kissed her like that broke him. Mouth open, desperate, tongue licking into hers as he slammed in harder. “I’ll be better,” he said into her mouth. “I swear to God, Lena, I’ll be better.”

Tears slipped sideways from her eyes onto the pillow. Whether they were his or hers, she didn’t know.

“Come for me,” he said. “Let me feel you.”

She did, high and fast and without warning. Her whole body locked around him, her cry punching out of her lungs like it got ripped free. Her cunt fluttered around his cock, squeezing him so tight he cursed, his rhythm faltering.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

He came seconds later, hips jerking, buried deep, moaning into her neck. She felt him pulse inside her, his whole body tensed, then shaking, spent.

For a long moment, the room held only the sound of their breathing. He didn’t move. She didn’t ask him to. When he finally pulled out, slow and careful, he looked at her like he didn’t deserve to touch her again.

She turned her face to the side. “Don’t say anything yet.”

He nodded, voice gone. “Okay.”

The room felt quieter in a way that scared Elena. The air held the scent of sweat and skin and hotel soap. The sheets were twisted. The glow from the city painted the ceiling in faint colour, shifting every time a sign outside flickered. Elena sat on the edge of the bed, hair damp, shirt pulled on without care. Her knees pressed together. Her body still hummed from the intensity, yet her mind had already returned to the words she had spoken.

Last time. Trust. Earn it.

Lando moved behind her, slower now, hoodie gone, hair messier, face stripped of performance. He grabbed two bottles of water from the mini fridge and handed one to her without speaking. Elena took it and drank, the cold water grounding her.

Lando looked toward the balcony door. “Air?”

Elena nodded. They stepped outside.

Humidity wrapped around them again, thicker here, city air pressing into their lungs. The balcony was narrow, railing warm under Elena’s fingers. Far below, the street glowed in ribbons of red taillights and white headlights. Neon signs in the distance pulsed against the darkness. A faint siren wailed somewhere and faded.

Lando leaned his elbows on the railing, shoulders slumped. He looked smaller out here, less like a driver and more like a man who had fought with his own head for hours. Elena stood near the doorframe, arms folded, bottle in hand. She kept a small distance without thinking. Her body wanted to move closer. Her trust kept her rooted.

Lando spoke first, voice low. “I meant what I said.”

Elena’s gaze stayed on the city. “You mean a lot in the moment.”

His jaw tightened. “That is unfair.”

Elena looked at him. “It is fair. It is accurate.”

Silence stretched. The city kept moving below them. The air pressed warm against Elena’s skin.

Lando exhaled, long. “I hate that you see through me.”

Elena’s voice stayed calm. “I hate that I still open the door.”

Lando flinched. He turned his head, eyes fixed on her. “I do not want to lose you.”

Elena’s chest tightened. The sentence had weight. It also had history, because he only said things like that at four a.m. in humid cities when his world cracked.

“You are close to losing me,” Elena said.

Lando stared at her. His eyes shone, furious and wet at the edges. His hands gripped the railing, knuckles pale.

“I want you all the time,” he said, voice tight.

Elena nodded slowly. “Then show me all the time.”

Silence fell again, heavier. No kiss to break it. No joke to soften it. Only the city’s glow and the sound of distant traffic.

Lando’s shoulders rose and fell once. His voice came out rough. “I am scared I will fail.”

Elena’s answer came quiet. “You already did. This is the last chance I’m giving you. There will never be another one.”

The words landed between them like a hard object dropped onto concrete. Lando’s eyes closed for a beat. When he opened them, he looked wrecked. Elena watched him, chest tight, and held her ground.

He turned back toward the city, elbows still on the railing. Elena stayed by the door, bottle warm in her hand now, sweat returning along her spine. They stood side by side, close enough to feel each other’s presence, far enough to feel the distance. Neon pulsed in the dark. Singapore breathed around them. The air stayed thick, and the silence refused to offer either of them an easy way out.

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Morning slid into the room in a thin, pale strip between the curtains. Elena surfaced from sleep before she opened her eyes. Her body felt heavy, skin sticky from the humid air, thighs sore in a way that carried memory more than ache. The sheets smelled like sweat and hotel detergent and something that belonged to him. She turned her head.

Lando lay on his back beside her, one arm flung over his face to shield his eyes from the light, lips slightly parted. The other arm rested across his stomach, fingers curled loose against his skin. His chest rose and fell in slow, even breaths. He was still there.

A strange, fragile silence settled on her chest. This scene belonged to another life, one they had never actually lived. Early light, shared bed, no slammed door at dawn, no empty indentation on the mattress where he used to be. Her throat tightened.

The events of the night sat in her lungs. Their fight. His words. Hers. The way everything had cracked open. The way they had pulled each other closer anyway, like two people clinging to wreckage in deep water.

Elena rolled onto her side, propped herself on an elbow, and studied him. Without a cap or hoodie, without the armour of team colours, he looked younger, hair flattened in random directions, lashes dark and damp at the corners. A faint crease cut between his brows even in sleep, like his mind still carried speed and danger through dreams.

She lifted a hand, then halted midway and let it fall back to the sheet. Touch felt easy. Trust did not. She watched instead.

He shifted, pulling his arm away from his face with a low sound. Light slid across his eyes. They fluttered open. For a second he stared at the ceiling, disoriented, then turned his head and found her.

His gaze softened, slow.

“Hi,” he said, voice thick with sleep.

“Hi,” she answered.

They looked at each other in the pale light, neither quite sure how to fit words into the space between them.

“You are still here,” Elena said.

A shadow crossed his face. “Yeah.”

“Different,” she added.

He swallowed, eyes dropping to the sheets for a moment. “Wanted to stay.”

The quiet honesty prickled under her skin. She had heard lines from him before. This one felt small and real, without decoration.

Elena pushed herself upright, pulling the sheet to her chest more out of habit than modesty. “What time is call?”

He blinked, then twisted to look at the bedside clock. “Media at nine, flight after.” He rubbed his face with both hands. “We have some time.”

Time. That word felt generous and cruel at once. They climbed out of bed and moved around the room with an awkward choreography that felt almost domestic. She gathered clothes from the chair. He found his joggers tangled near the foot of the bed. They bumped shoulders near the wardrobe, murmured automatic apologies, laughed once when they both reached for the same sock.

In the bathroom, steam fogged the mirror while the shower ran. Elena brushed her teeth at the sink while he brushed his beside her, towel slung low on his hips. Their eyes met in the glass. This was the kind of scene other couples lived without thinking. For Elena it felt like fantasy, like they had stepped into an advert for a life that did not belong to them.

Lando rinsed his toothbrush and set it down. “We look rough,” he said, water at the corner of his mouth.

Elena spat into the sink, wiped her lips, and met his gaze in the mirror. “We earned it.”

He smiled, small and crooked, then washed the water away.

Back in the bedroom, she dressed in loose trousers and a vest, pulling her hair into a low knot to fight the heat. He changed into travel kit, team logo over his heart again, the familiar uniform sliding back into place one piece at a time. The kettle clicked on. Elena poured water into two small hotel cups and dropped instant coffee sachets inside. The smell rose, harsh and comforting.

She handed him a cup. Their fingers brushed. He held on for a second longer than necessary, then let go. They sat on the edge of the bed, side by side, cups warming their hands. The curtains remained half closed. Light edged around the fabric, soft and unforgiving.

Silence stretched, filled with the hum of the air unit, distant traffic far below, and the faint echo of footsteps in the corridor outside.

“So,” he said.

“So,” she echoed.

He stared into his coffee, thumb tapping the rim. “About last night.”

Elena gripped her cup tighter. “Which part.”

He huffed out a breath that might have been a laugh if it carried less weight. “The part where you said this was the last time.”

Her chest tightened. “I meant it.”

“I know,” he said, voice low. “You sounded very sure.”

“I am very tired,” she replied.

He bit the inside of his cheek, nodding slowly. “I deserved most of that.”

She met his eyes. “You deserved all of it.”

A beat passed. His gaze held hers, accepting the blow, no flinch this time.

“I want to do better,” he said.

Elena’s fingers tightened around the cup. “People say that a lot. You say that a lot.”

His jaw worked. He nodded once. “True.”

He set his coffee on the bedside table and turned fully toward her, one leg folded onto the mattress. “You asked for daylight.”

Elena looked at him, wary. “And?”

“I can give you one concrete thing now,” he said. “Small. Real.”

She waited, pulse kicking up despite herself.

“I will call you before the next race weekend,” he said. “Middle of the week. No panic. No crisis. No alcohol. No stupid hour. I will ring you because I want to talk, in the middle of the week.”

Her breath caught. “About what?”

He shrugged, a helpless gesture. “Anything. Your gigs. Nora’s chaotic office. My weird physio exercises. A film you watched on the plane. I do not care, as long as it is me calling you while my day still works, not when it falls apart.”

A slow ache moved through her chest. “You say that like it is simple.”

He smiled without humour. “It is hard as hell for me. I live in crisis mode. You know that.”

“I do. You forget I also live a busy life; I’m shooting for a band doing the UK stint in their tour next week,” she said. “Which is why effort matters more than promises.”

He spread his hands slightly, empty. “Then let this be one effort.”

She studied him. The boy who had stood in her doorway at four in the morning looked back at her. The man who climbed into a car at insane speed lined his posture now. Both truths sat in his eyes.

“And me,” she said quietly. “What do I do in this plan?”

“You decide,” he replied. “When I call, you pick up or you do not. You listen or you hang up. You tell me you can handle more of this, or you tell me you are finished.” His voice stayed steady on the last words, though his throat flexed.

Elena’s heart pounded against her ribs. “That is a scary amount of power,” she said.

“You already carry it,” he answered. “This way we say it out loud.”

She looked away, blinking at the far wall where a framed print of some generic beach scene hung crooked. Her mind kept racing ahead, trying to imagine that call. His name on her screen. Her thumb hovering. Her chest clenching. Her future swinging between yes and no.

“I do not trust you,” she said again, softer this time.

“I know,” he replied. “You should not, yet.”

The yet hung in the air, fragile.

“I want that back,” he added. “I want you to believe me when I say things. I cannot ask for it now.”

Elena turned her head slowly and found his eyes. “Good. Because you will not get it now.”

His mouth twitched. “I figured.”

They sat together in that truth, cups cooling.

“I do not know if I can walk away,” she said. The admission slipped out before she could hide it. “I think about it. Then I see you. Then everything gets messy again.”

He exhaled, something like relief flickering across his face. “Same.”

“You do not get to use that,” she said.

He lifted his hands in surrender. “I will not.”

They drank the rest of the coffee in small sips. It tasted burnt and thin, yet it gave her hands something to do. Afterwards, practicalities took over. He checked his bag for his passport three times, muttering under his breath. She packed her lenses into padded compartments with care, half her brain already on airport security queues and transfer times.

He found his cap on the floor, picked it up, then paused.

“You hate when I hide behind this,” he said.

Elena glanced up. “Sometimes.”

He held it loosely. “I will leave it off until the lobby.”

A tiny gesture. A tiny act of vulnerability. It should have meant very little. It meant more than she wanted to admit.

“Suit yourself,” she said.

He smiled faintly. They checked the room twice to make sure nothing remained. Charger. Keys. Ring light. The charger nearly stayed in the wall socket. Elena laughed when she caught it, then stopped when their eyes met over the plug.

Old habits. New stakes. He slung his backpack over one shoulder and stepped toward the door. She lifted her own bag, camera weight familiar against her ribs. He opened the door and waited for her.

In the corridor, the carpet muffled their footsteps. A cleaner pushed a trolley at the far end, humming under her breath. Two team members walked past, nodding in greeting. Lando nodded back. For once he did not pull ahead. He matched Elena’s pace exactly.

She felt the change like a small shift in gravity. No hand reached for hers. No furtive distance. He walked beside her, shoulder almost aligned with hers, as if their presence together raised no alarm. Her heart climbed higher in her chest.

In the lift, they shared the space with a man in a suit glued to his phone. Elevator music murmured low. Floor numbers lit up one by one. Lando stood close enough that Elena could feel heat radiating from his arm. He kept his gaze forward. She caught his reflection in the mirrored doors. Jaw tight. Mouth pressed flat. Eyes flicking to her, then away, as if restraint cost him effort.

The doors slid open on the lobby. Early light washed through the glass front of the hotel. The air near the entrance carried warm humidity even inside. Staff moved behind the reception desk, faces fresh. A few guests clustered near the coffee stand, half awake. Outside, near the revolving door, a black car waited with a driver in team livery leaning against the side, tablet in hand.

Of course, he had a car. Of course, his name sat in bold on a roster somewhere, schedule arranged to the minute.

Elena adjusted the strap on her bag, palm sweating slightly against the fabric. Her flight left later. Nora would arrive from London that afternoon. The thought of Nora’s face, sharp and kind, steadied her.

Lando slowed near a column off to one side of the lobby, out of immediate traffic, yet fully within sight of staff and whoever chose to glance over. He turned to her, shifting the backpack strap on his shoulder.

“So,” he said.

“So,” she replied.

He studied her face, eyes searching. “You will let me call.”

She inhaled through her nose. “I will let the phone ring. What happens after depends on you.”

He nodded once, taking this like a rule he would have to follow, not an invitation he could waste. “Fair.”

A few team staff crossed the lobby, eyes on their tablets. One of them glanced toward them, then away, uninterested. The world still spun. No sudden spotlight. No gasp. No alarm.

Lando smiled, small and bitter. “Feels strange, standing here with you where everyone can see.”

Her pulse fluttered. “Feels real.”

His eyes flicked to the entrance, then back to her. “I want more of that.”

“You know what it costs,” she said.

He swallowed, gaze steady. “Yeah.”

His driver caught his eye and lifted a hand in a small wave, time’s up. A staffer spoke into a radio nearby. The moment shrank.

They stood at a crossroads with three exits. She stepped closer. She rose onto her toes and pressed her mouth to his in a quick, soft kiss. No heat. No tongue. A brush of lips that still carried weight, precisely because it happened here, in bright light, near reception, within view of whoever cared to notice.

He froze for half a second, then kissed her back with the same restraint. When she stepped back, his eyes were wide, startled. He glanced around, a reflex. A woman at the coffee stand looked away quickly, pretending she had seen nothing. A receptionist finished checking in a guest. Life continued.

Lando searched Elena’s face for panic, for regret, for signs that she would bolt. Her heart hammered so hard she felt it up in her throat, yet her feet stayed planted. She met his gaze without flinching.

“Small step,” she said quietly.

He exhaled, something like awe in the sound. “Big one for me.”

She allowed herself a brief smile. “You have a plane.”

He winced. “Right.”

He lifted a hand, hesitated, then curled his fingers around hers for a second, squeezing once before letting go. No secret. No sneaking. Then he stepped back, shoulders squaring, posture shifting as the role settled over him again.

He turned toward the door, then looked back over his shoulder.

“I will call,” he said.

“We will see,” she replied.

He gave a small nod, almost to himself, and walked out into the Singapore morning. The heat outside met him at the automatic doors, bright and thick. A camera near the entrance lifted, aiming for a quick shot of a driver leaving his hotel. Lando gave a small wave, easy. No trace of the four a.m. version he had left upstairs.

The driver opened the rear door. Lando slid into the back seat, backpack beside him. Cool air met his skin as the air conditioning kicked in. The car pulled away from the hotel in a smooth roll, city light streaking across the windows.

He stared at his phone for a second, thumb hovering over her name. Then he pressed call.

Back in the lobby, Elena had turned toward the lifts when the vibration buzzed against her palm. She glanced at the screen.

Lando.

Her heart gave a ridiculous leap for someone who had seen him less than a minute earlier.

She answered. “You realise I watched you leave through a pane of glass.”

His voice came warm and slightly smug down the line. “Good. Then you can confirm this is very dramatic.”

She huffed, a sound halfway to a laugh. “You already said you would call before the next race. Impatient much.”

“This is a systems check,” he said. “Verifying signal strength. Confirming you did not block me. Making sure you remember how to pick up when my name appears.”

Her lips curved despite herself. “You think highly of your own importance.”

“I think highly of your talent for running away,” he replied. “Audit complete. Line works. You sound alive.”

“You are in a car,” she said. “You should focus on your deep breathing or whatever your trainer makes you do.”

“Already breathing,” he said. “With less panic.”

A small pause settled, softer than the ones they shared in the room upstairs.

“The real call still comes midweek,” he added. “Daylight. No panic. That part stands.”

“It better,” she said. “I am counting that as your first test.”

“I pass if you pick up,” he answered.

She rolled her eyes toward the ceiling. “Drive safe, Norris.”

“You sleep,” he said. “Properly, for once.”

The words landed gentle in her chest. She swallowed. “We will see.”

“Talk soon,” he said, quieter now.

“Maybe,” she replied.

He laughed under his breath, then ended the call.

The lobby’s sounds returned at full volume. Suitcases rolled across the tiles. A barista called an order. The doors opened and closed, letting in short breaths of hot air. Elena looked at the dark screen for a second longer, then slid the phone into her pocket and adjusted her bag.

This thing between them remained a mess. Trust still lay in pieces, scattered across hotel rooms and stairwells and paddocks. Healing in one night lived firmly in fantasy. Yet for the first time, effort carried a shape. A date. A promise that belonged to daytime, where cameras and fear and habit could not blur it so easily.

Elena stepped toward the lifts, the city humming outside, the air thick with heat and possibility, and walked into a future where whatever they became would either be built slowly or crack for good, but either would take effort.

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