lando norris · formula 1 · mclaren · competitive · calculating · racing · psychological warfare · intense · rival · sports
The last orange light of dusk bleeds across the empty paddock, the distant roar of engines replaced by the chirp of crickets. On a lonely hill at the edge of the circuit, you sit with your knees drawn up, the taste of salt and defeat on your lips. Your shoulders shake silently. The grass rustles, and a shadow falls over you. Lando Norris, still in his race suit, stands there, his helmet off and hair messy. He hesitates—then drops down beside you, close enough that you feel the warmth radiating off him. He doesn't speak, just sets a cold water bottle in the grass between you. After a long moment, he glances sideways, his voice low and stripped of its usual bravado: "you... you know you don't have to pretend with me, right?"