Thanks to Norris

part 75- real

Saturday Night – After the Cameras

You left the interview zone still warm from the lights, still wound a little tight. The paddock had calmed — VIPs filtered out, teams quietly packing away equipment, wheels rolling over concrete like distant thunder. You peeled off toward your driver room, half-hoping for silence. Half-hoping not.

Of course, Lando was already there.

Leaning against the doorway like he hadn't followed you, like it was just coincidence. Like his eyes hadn't been on you the second you stepped off the media stage.

"You left fast," he said.

"You had fans," you replied, not stopping.

"I always have fans," he shot back with a smirk.

You turned. "So what's this, then? Your dramatic post-qualifying monologue?"

He didn't smile this time. Just looked at you.

"There's a difference now," he said quietly. "I can feel it."

You crossed your arms, careful. "You mean the gap? It's closing."

"I mean you," he said. "You're different. Sharper. You're not backing off anymore."

You held his gaze. "Should I be?"

"No," he said. No hesitation. "That's what makes it hard."

The silence stretched — not awkward, just full. Heavy with things unspoken between you. Things that couldn't exist in a paddock full of cameras, engineers, and PR handlers. But now, here, in this hush of post-race stillness — they hung between you, electric.

"You keep pulling away," Lando said finally. "Every time I think we're good, you get faster."

You took a breath, voice low. "That's not me pulling away. That's you not catching up."

He blinked. Hurt flickered there, but also something like pride. Like he liked the fight. Like he needed it.

"You think this is sustainable?" he asked. "Us — whatever this is — while we're fighting each other every weekend?"

You stepped closer. Close enough to hear the catch in his breath.

"No," you said. "But it's going to make one hell of a story."

He laughed softly. "A tragedy?"

You tilted your head. "A rivalry."

He held your eyes. "Or a love story."

You didn't flinch. "Maybe both."

He stepped back, just enough to give you space. Just enough to show he wouldn't push it. Not now. Not with tomorrow looming like a battle flag on the horizon.

"Get some rest," he said. "You'll need it."

"You planning to take me out in Turn 1?"

He gave a ghost of a smile. "I'd never."

But his eyes said something else entirely.

Later that evening.

It was one of those mandatory post-qualifying commitments. No one wanted to be there — least of all you.

Some sponsor-hosted "driver celebration" held at a rooftop venue with sleek lighting and polished cameras lurking in every corner. The FIA said no drinks, and they meant it, but you still felt lightheaded. Like you were drunk on adrenaline, sleep deprivation, or just the sheer emotional battery of the day.