Good Luck, Babe
The hotel room felt too small for the storm that lived between you. The air was stale, thick, carrying the weight of words unspoken, of words that had already cut their way loose. Even with the windows cracked open and the night spilling in—humid, restless, whispering against the curtains—you couldn’t breathe.
You sat at the edge of the bed, legs bent tightly together, fingers knotted in the hem of your shirt, holding yourself in place as if moving would shatter you into shards across the floor. Across the room, Lando stood with his back half-turned to you, leaning against the desk, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He was still, but not calm—his body carried the tension of a wire stretched too tight, humming with the threat of snapping.
It hadn’t started like this. It never did. The fight had slipped in quietly, disguised in the casual sharpness of a tone, in the smallest misunderstanding. A sigh you took too personally. A question he answered too shortly. And like every argument that had ever lived between you, it bloomed suddenly, ferociously, until you were staring at each other across a canyon neither of you knew how to bridge.
“You don’t get it,” he said, his voice low at first, controlled, the kind of quiet that was more dangerous than shouting. His eyes flicked to you and then away again, unable to hold the weight of your gaze. “You don’t understand what it’s like for me out there.”
You lifted your head, already bracing for the impact. “Then explain it to me.”
He exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his curls before shoving it back into his pocket. “Every second counts. Every corner. Every lap. I’m fighting everyone who doubts me, who waits for me to mess up. It’s pressure you’ll never feel, not like this. And you—”
“And me what?” Your words sliced through, soft but edged with steel. You hated the way your voice shook, hated the way your body betrayed the rage and sorrow that churned inside you.
His lips pressed together, a war playing across his face, but then the dam broke. “You make it harder. You add to it. I can’t carry my fear and yours at the same time.”
The room went still. Even the curtains stilled, the night air pausing as if to let the words echo louder.
You stared at him, throat burning, chest tight with the weight of it. “My fear?” The words left your mouth like smoke. “Lando, I’m not afraid for me. I’m afraid for you. Every time you step into that car, I wonder if it’ll be the last time I hear your voice. I wonder if I’ll ever see your face again. Do you know what it’s like to love someone who plays with death every weekend and still pretends it’s nothing? Do you know what it’s like to wait?”
For a second—just a second—his face faltered. You saw it: the flicker of softness, the breaking boy beneath the armor. But it passed like a shadow, and he shook his head. “I don’t need that before a race. I can’t hold all of it.”
The words hit you like a blow. Not just what he said, but the truth behind them. He wasn’t telling you he didn’t love you. He was telling you he couldn’t bear your love in its truest, rawest form—because love meant fear, and fear meant distraction, and distraction meant danger. But knowing didn’t make it hurt less.
You stood abruptly, unable to stay seated in the wreckage of his words. Your jacket hung over the chair; your hands found it before your heart could tell you to stay. You pulled it around your body, your fingers trembling as they tugged at the zipper. You hated that he saw. You hated that he saw everything.
“Fine,” you whispered, your voice barely holding. “Then stop worrying about me at all. Maybe that’ll make things easier.”
His jaw tightened, the muscles in his cheek twitching. His lips parted, like he wanted to speak, like the apology was right there waiting to leap from his tongue. But nothing came. Nothing except silence. And the silence was worse than any words could’ve been.
You turned toward the door, each step heavy and deliberate. Your hand found the handle, cold metal against your palm. You paused, just long enough to throw the last remnants of yourself into the room. “Good luck tomorrow,” you said, hollow, bitter, broken.
The door shut behind you with the finality of a slammed book.
And for the first time since you’d known him, you didn’t look back.
The morning of the race broke heavy. The sky stretched pale over the paddock, a dull canvas painted with streaks of gray. The air was charged, not with excitement, but with the hum of anticipation—the kind that pressed against your skin and whispered that something was coming. You’d been to dozens of race days before, but never had the air felt quite so unbearable, quite so sharp against your lungs.
You hadn’t spoken to Lando since the night before. Not a word, not even a glance. The silence wasn’t just absence—it was presence, too. It followed you through the team motorhome, through the narrow corridors where mechanics brushed past, their uniforms smelling of rubber and fuel. It weighed heavy on your shoulders as you passed fans lined up at the barricades, their voices blending into a chorus of chants and screams. It lived inside you, chewing at your ribs, whispering all the things you’d wanted to say but never did.
When you saw him, helmet tucked under his arm, race suit clinging to his frame, it was like looking at a stranger you once knew. His jaw was set, his eyes focused straight ahead, a storm contained in a body that had no room for you today. And yet, he looked so young in that moment. Young in the way boys are when they’re about to walk into fire and call it glory.
You wanted to call out to him. You wanted to run to him, grab his face in your hands, tell him you didn’t mean it, that you were terrified not of him but of losing him. But your body betrayed you. You froze, rooted in silence, the same silence that had followed you since the hotel.
The minutes blurred, the countdown ticking. The cars lined up on the grid, engines purring like beasts hungry for release. The colors of the track gleamed under the lights, a kaleidoscope of paint and fire. You watched from the garage, monitors alive with telemetry, commentators’ voices crackling over radios.
And then it began.
The cars surged forward, a symphony of speed and smoke, tires screaming against asphalt. Lando’s papaya arrow shot into position, weaving, calculating, hunting. Your heart stuttered with every corner, every flick of the steering wheel, every millisecond that separated him from disaster.
You gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles white, your nails digging into your palms. You told yourself to breathe, but the sound of the engines drowned out even your own pulse. Around you, the team watched with eyes sharp and focused, but you were the only one unraveling, thread by thread.
And then it happened.
Too fast, too sudden, too cruel.
Another car clipped into his rear, a flash of sparks lighting up the track like a dying star. His car jolted sideways, wheels skidding, smoke erupting as he fought the wheel with everything he had. For a breathless second, the world stopped. The garage held its collective inhale, the silence louder than the engines. You swore you could hear your own heartbeat, wild and panicked, hammering against your chest.
You saw it all in slow motion—the car spinning, the blur of color, the violent dance between control and chaos. And in that frozen moment, you saw him too. Not the driver, not the public figure, not the boy the world adored. You saw Lando. The boy who texted you good morning just to remind you that the day could start soft. The boy who picked playlists with you at midnight, who laughed until he cried, who kissed you like you were the first safe place he had ever found.
The boy you might lose.
The scream clawed up your throat but never made it past your lips. Instead, it lived inside you, raw and electric, as you watched him wrestle his way back from the edge. Somehow—miraculously—the car straightened, the smoke cleared, and the race went on. But for you, everything had stopped.
Your knees buckled. You gripped the counter harder, your body trembling as if it were your hands that had been on the wheel, your heart that had fought physics to bring him back. The team shouted, cursed, exhaled relief, their focus already shifting back to the screens. But you couldn’t move. You couldn’t look away from the replay, the moment replaying again and again, a cruel reminder of how close he’d come to being ripped away.
And in that instant, the fight from the night before turned to dust. None of it mattered anymore—the sharp words, the silence, the pride that had kept you both apart. What mattered was that he was still here. What mattered was that, for one terrifying heartbeat, he almost wasn’t.
You pressed your fist to your mouth, biting back the sob that threatened to break free. You hated yourself for not speaking, for letting him step into that car without knowing the truth of how much you loved him, how much you couldn’t survive the thought of a world without him.
Because love wasn’t meant to be carried in silence. And yet here you were, drowning in it.
The race ended in a blur. You didn’t even register the checkered flag, the fireworks, the cheers rising like thunder in the stands. All you saw was the car rolling into parc fermé, battered but still breathing, and Lando climbing out, helmet tucked beneath his arm. The cameras caught his smile—tight, calculated, the smile of a man who knew the world was watching. But you saw past it. You saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands trembled just slightly when he removed his gloves. You saw the fragility that he hid behind adrenaline and steel.
And suddenly, you couldn’t stand still.
Your body moved before your mind caught up, carrying you down the corridor, weaving past journalists, engineers, strangers who all wanted a piece of him. Your chest burned, lungs starved of air, but you didn’t care. The world could collapse behind you and you’d still push forward, because there was only one place you needed to be.
By the time you reached the motorhome, he was already inside, peeling off the layers of fireproof fabric, his hair damp with sweat. He didn’t notice you at first. Or maybe he did and just refused to acknowledge it. His back was turned, his movements mechanical, as if undressing could erase the near-death etched into his bones.
“Lando.”
Your voice broke on his name. A whisper, frayed at the edges. He froze. Slowly, painfully, he turned, and when his eyes met yours, the silence between you cracked like glass.
You didn’t think. You couldn’t. You crossed the room in a heartbeat, your hands finding his face, pulling him to you with all the desperation you’d swallowed for days. His skin was hot beneath your palms, his breath uneven, and for a moment he resisted, his body stiff with pride and anger. But then he gave in. His forehead dropped against yours, and he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath since the night before.
“I almost lost you,” you whispered, the words tumbling out, raw and trembling. “I almost lost you and—and I let you walk away without knowing how much—” Your throat closed, tears rising fast, and you shook your head, pressing your hands harder against his cheeks, grounding yourself in the solidity of him. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
His eyes softened, the storm inside them finally breaking. He lifted his hands, resting them over yours, and for once there was no guard, no mask, no armor. Just him. Just Lando.
“You think I don’t know?” His voice cracked, quieter than you’d ever heard it. “You think I didn’t hear it in the way you looked at me even when you couldn’t say it out loud? Do you know how fucking terrifying it is, loving you and knowing I could crash, knowing I could leave you with nothing but silence?”
Your tears spilled over, hot trails down your face. “That’s exactly why I was scared,” you breathed. “I thought—if I didn’t say it, if I held it back, maybe it would hurt less when…” You faltered, unable to finish the thought. But he knew. He always knew.
“Don’t you see?” he whispered, stepping closer until your bodies touched, heat radiating between you. “It’s always going to hurt. Whether I’m here or not, whether you say it or swallow it—it’s going to burn. But at least if you say it, I get to carry it with me. At least I get to know.”
Something inside you broke then—not in destruction, but in release. The dam you’d built around yourself shattered, and the words spilled out like water rushing toward the sea.
“I love you.”
It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t careful. It was violent in its truth, tearing itself free from the prison of your ribs. You said it again, louder, your voice cracking: “I love you. I love you, Lando, and I’m so fucking terrified of what that means, but it’s the only thing I know.”
For a moment, he just stared at you, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. And then he kissed you.
It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t the kind of kiss meant for movies or headlines. It was fire. It was everything you’d both buried—anger, fear, longing, love—set ablaze and poured into each other. His hands gripped your waist like he was afraid you’d vanish, and yours tangled in his damp hair, pulling him closer, closer, until there was no space left to collapse.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath warm and uneven. “Say it again,” he murmured, almost begging.
“I love you,” you whispered, your voice trembling with both relief and exhaustion. “I love you.”
And this time, it didn’t feel like breaking. It felt like surviving.
