Archive of Our Own

The world comes back in fragments.

White ceiling, blurred by the film of his eyelashes. Soft beeping, steady and low. The weight of sheets over his legs, the faint pull of something at the crook of his arm. He drifts at the surface for a while, the air cool against his skin, voices stirring just out of reach.

A thumb sweeps lightly across his forehead — a hush of skin on skin — and a voice, almost sung rather than spoken, whispering mi niño, mi niño, gracias a Dios.

Carlos blinks. His eyelids are heavy, lashes stuck, the light sharp when it hits his pupils. His mouth is dry, the back of his throat rough. He swallows and winces faintly, fingers twitching against the sheets.

“Mamá?” His voice is a rasp, unfamiliar to his own ears. Reyes gives a soft gasp, and her face comes into focus above him: eyes rimmed red, a wet smile trembling on her mouth.

“Hola, mi amor,” she whispers, brushing his hair back with shaking fingers. “Hola, mi niño.”

The rest comes gradually: Blanca’s voice near his feet — “Look who’s decided to join us, eh?” — the sound half-laugh, half-sob; Ana’s sharp-edged relief, somewhere near the window, arms folded, voice quaking: “Honestly, Carlos, you’re such a pain in the arse.”

Caco leans over, his grin tilted, eyes shiny. “Proper idiot, primo,” he says, and there’s a punch to Carlos’ shoulder, light through the blanket.

And then his father. Tall at the back, arms crossed too tightly, face drawn, the kind of tired that goes all the way through the bones. When Carlos meets his eyes, something in Carlos Sr’s mouth softens. He steps forward, hand wrapping around Carlos’ shoulder, his thumb brushing a line there, deliberate, grounding.

Hijo mío. The words slip out rough and unsteady. Carlos feels his throat tighten, eyes burning.

They move around him in a quiet dance — Reyes’ fingers curling round his wrist, Ana opening a bottle of water and holding the straw to his mouth, Blanca brushing his leg through the sheet. Caco, half-laughing, half-crying, says something about how they’re going to wrap him in bubble wrap next time.

And Carlos lets it hold him afloat — the warmth, the noise, the steadying pressure of hands on his arm, his foot, his shoulder. He’s tired, so tired, but anchored by them, the world knitting itself back together piece by piece.

*~*~*~*~*

Carlos blinked himself awake again, the world slipping into sharper shape, the hospital room pale in the late afternoon light, voices soft and overlapping. Ana was perched on the windowsill, legs tucked under her, scrolling through her phone with the restless air of someone pretending to be occupied. Caco had taken over the chair at his bedside, sprawled sideways with his feet propped up, mid-story about airport security taking away his shampoo, grinning as if the telling was half the fun. Blanca sat at the end of the bed, elbow resting on the rail, smiling as she cut in with her own version, while Reyes sat quietly at his side, fingers light on his arm, her eyes darting to his face every few seconds like she still didn’t quite trust he was really awake. Carlos Sr stood just behind her, arms folded too tightly, weight shifting from foot to foot, a steady presence but one with edges pulled in tight, as if he was holding himself firm against the swell of the room.

“—so now I’m standing in the queue with one flip-flop,” Caco was saying, “because the other one got caught in the escalator, and the man in front of me keeps looking down at my foot like I’ve just stepped out of a swamp.”

Blanca rolled her eyes. “You had just stepped out of a puddle. You were soaking. You tracked water through half the terminal.”

“Because someone didn’t warn me the roof leaked!” Caco said, pointing accusingly at her. “I was ambushed.”

“You were clumsy,” Ana muttered without looking up.

“I was victimised by architecture,” Caco said, over her. “And then the security guy makes me take the good flip-flop off too, like I’m trying to smuggle something in the sole. So now I’m barefoot, dripping wet, and trying to explain why I’m carrying six jars of your mum’s homemade tomato sauce.”

“She asked me to bring them!” Blanca said, half laughing, half exasperated. “I didn’t say pack them next to your laptop like a psychopath.”

“I was trying to protect them!”

“They were wrapped in socks,” Ana said, glancing up briefly. “Used socks.”

A small, hoarse sound escaped Carlos, a laugh that caught on a wince in his chest, fingers rubbing slowly over the blanket. The dull ache under his ribs flared in a faint pulse, but it was muted, less important than the noise of them, the way their voices wrapped around the bed. For a moment, he let himself drift in it, anchored by the familiar dance of them circling each other, teasing and fretting and filling the air.

At some point, he caught the low slip of Ana’s voice as she leaned toward Blanca, not quite whispering but speaking softly enough to make it private: “And Lando?”

Caco, half-listening, supplied lightly, “Tomorrow morning. They finally made him go to sleep.”

Carlos frowned faintly, the edge of the words tugging at something just out of reach. Lando? Why was Ana asking about—? But the thought slid away before it could settle, smudged by the thick pull of exhaustion in his head.

They carried on, the conversation meandering, Caco teasing Ana, Ana flicking a paper cup at him, Blanca making Reyes laugh softly over something about the nurses and the amount of homemade food Reyes had brought. It felt safe, and Carlos let himself lean into it, eyes half-lidded, body heavy but held.

When the lull came, quiet and natural, Carlos cleared his throat, his voice rough but more present now, and asked, “What day is it?”

“Sunday,” Blanca said gently from the end of the bed.

Carlos frowned. “Sunday?” He blinked at her, then over at the window where the light slanted pale. “No, it’s… Saturday. FP3.”

Ana’s head lifted sharply from her phone, her brows pulling tight.

“I don’t remember FP3, though,” Carlos muttered, piecing through the fog. “Was I— did I crash in quali?” His ribs ached as he shifted against the pillows. “I was fine in the morning before FP3. Talking with my engineers about Baku setup.”

“Baku?” Caco repeated, frowning like the word had caught him off guard.

Carlos glanced at him. “Yeah. It’s next. After the break. Nineteenth, right?”

Another pause. Not quite silence, but the room thinned around the edges. Ana looked up from her phone. Caco didn’t say anything else. Blanca’s eyes flicked to their father.

Reyes’ fingers tightened faintly on his wrist. “Carlos,” she said gently, her voice careful.

Carlos Sr stepped forward, jaw tight, arms folded hard across his chest. “There’s no break,” he said quietly. “The next race is in Madrid. On the thirteenth.”

Carlos blinked. “What?” The words didn’t sit right. “No, that’s not—” He shook his head. “Baku’s the nineteenth.”

Reyes leaned in, brushing her thumb over his wrist. “It’s September sixth, cariño,” she said softly. “2026.”

Carlos blinked, the numbers colliding in his head. His throat worked. “That’s— no. I was just in Monaco. After Zandvoort. We flew here—” He stopped. The memory was clear, bright as glass — laughter spilling over dinner, the plane ride, the track walk — and then it dropped off into nothing. A cold, blank wall.

The air seemed to drain out of the room.

Carlos felt his fingers curl hard into the blanket, the cannula pulling at his wrist. The beeping at his side picked up, faint but insistent, a nervous rhythm echoing the sudden rush of his heart. His mouth was dry, his ribs aching sharper now, a bright thread of panic unspooling under his breastbone.

Reyes’ hand came up, cradling his face gently, her thumb brushing his cheek, murmured Spanish soft and steady in his ear. Across the bed, Caco shifted forward, his mouth tight, his hand half-reaching as if to bridge the space. Ana was suddenly quiet, the edge gone from her voice, and Blanca’s face had gentled, a trace of worry softening her eyes.

Carlos blinked hard, his throat working, and felt something inside him give way — a hollow, sickening pull, a whole year gone like it had slipped sideways, and he had never seen it leave.

*~*~*~*~*

The doctor came in just as the last light was pulling thin across the room, the blinds casting long lines over the floor. Reyes straightened in her chair, smoothing her blouse with shaking hands. Ana slid off the windowsill, stretching her legs with a restless shift; Blanca set down the cup in her hand, the quiet knock of cardboard on plastic sharp in the hush. Carlos Sr moved forward, arms folding, mouth drawn into a hard, pale line.

Carlos watched all of it from the bed, chest tight, fingers working faintly under the blanket as if there were something he could anchor himself to if only he reached far enough.

The doctor, short, dark-haired, kind-eyed, smiled, professional but warm. He greeted each of them with a small nod, then crouched slightly beside the bed, hands resting loosely on his knees, voice quiet and unhurried. “Good evening, Carlos. How are you holding up?”

Carlos cleared his throat, voice cracked and raw. “Bit of a mess,” he murmured, seeing the faint lift of Caco’s eyebrows, the small tremor of a smile on Reyes’ mouth, the way Blanca let out a breath she seemed to have been holding.

The doctor nodded gently. “Your family’s told me about the memory gaps you’ve noticed. I know that’s unsettling.” His eyes stayed on Carlos’, calm and steady. “From what we can tell, you’re experiencing post-traumatic amnesia — memory loss following head trauma. Right now, it seems to cover roughly the past year. That doesn’t mean those memories are permanently gone. Some people recover them gradually, some with help, some not fully. But the first priority is rest and stabilisation.”

Carlos’ fingers twitched at the edge of the blanket, his brows pulling faintly together. “But when…” He drew a breath, his throat tightening around the words. “When can I — when do you think I can start rehab?”

The room shifted, a soft ripple moving through it: Reyes’ lips parting in surprise, Ana’s arms crossing tighter over her chest, Caco glancing quickly at Blanca. Carlos Sr’s mouth drew into a tighter line, his shoulders stiff.

The doctor paused just a beat, then gave a small, careful smile. “Let’s take things one step at a time. Right now, your body needs to heal. We’ll monitor your neurological function closely. Once we’re sure you’re stable, we’ll start light physio, and then talk about cognitive recovery. We’ll work with the team doctors when the time comes — but that’s still a way off.”

Carlos exhaled hard through his nose, blinking fast, the sudden sting behind his eyes something sharp and uninvited. Reyes squeezed his hand, her thumb brushing lightly along the side of his wrist, her voice slipping into soft Spanish murmurs, calming, coaxing. Across from her, Caco shifted, his grin gone faint and crooked, tapping lightly against the bedframe as if to ground the air. Ana’s sharpness was quieted now, pulled tight inward, and Blanca’s gaze was steady, warm, full of the gentler worry she rarely let show.

And his father — his father stood still, one broad hand braced at the end of the bed, eyes dark and watchful, something fierce and silent banked beneath his expression. Carlos looked at him, chest hitching faintly, and felt the sharp, hollow ache pulse under his ribs: a whole year gone, his life reshaped without him, and no way yet to climb back in.

*~*~*~*~*

The morning slid in pale and grey through the hospital blinds, the air thick with the scent of antiseptic and stale coffee, the quiet shuffle of nurses in and out. Blanca had gone home late in the night, Ana following soon after, though both had promised to return by afternoon. Reyes sat now in a chair by the bed, a book closed on her lap, fingers stroking absently at the pages; Carlos Sr stood near the window, on his phone, face drawn, voice low as he murmured into it.

Carlos drifted in and out, heavy-limbed, heart thrumming with restless edge. His body ached in ways he couldn’t yet map properly — ribs, shoulder, leg, skull — but the weight in his chest was the sharpest thing, the hollow pull under his breastbone where a year should have been. Every time his thoughts drifted toward it, his throat closed, breath shuddering out in fits. Reyes’ fingers would come to his arm then, warm and grounding, her voice threading soft Spanish into his skin.

The knock came light, half-laughing on the second tap, and when the door opened, it let in a rush of noise and cold air.

“Hola, campeón,” Teto grinned, sweeping into the room like he owned it, a ridiculous balloon bobbing behind him on a string. “You look terrible.”

“Terrible, but better than yesterday,” Guzmán added, sliding in with a lopsided grin, his eyes bright.

Gigi followed at their heels, quiet but warm, his mouth lifting in a small, fond smile. “Capullo,” he murmured, and the word struck something faint and sore in Carlos’ chest, a flicker of old affection he couldn’t quite get his hands around.

And then Lando.

He came in last, hands shoved deep into the pockets of a soft, washed-out hoodie, trainers scuffed, hair a rumpled, flattened mess. His face was pale, eyes shadowed purple underneath, mouth tight as if trying to hold something steady. For a moment, he hesitated near the door, one foot braced against the floor, his fingers curling in his pocket — and then his breath left him, soft and shaking, and he crossed the room.

“Hey,” Lando murmured, voice cracking into a half-smile, eyes wet as he reached down without thinking, his hand closing over Carlos’ like it belonged there, thumb brushing slow, steady strokes over the knuckles as if to prove they were both still here, still real. “Scared the hell out of me, you know.”

Carlos blinked up at him, his pulse flaring sharp, the pressure of Lando’s fingers sinking warm into the bones of his hand. It was the smallest thing — the wrap of fingers, the soft drag of a thumb along the back of his hand, the way Lando cradled it lightly as if it were precious, breakable — and it undid him more than anything.

His mouth tugged faintly at the corners, the old reflex rising, familiar as breath — Lando, mate, good to see you — but behind it, something stumbled, hollow, a terrible weight pressing into his chest where nine months of memory should have lived.

Reyes shifted faintly, glancing at Carlos Sr, her mouth tightening, a quiet, wordless question passing between them. Caco, hovering at the foot of the bed, rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, his eyes darting between Carlos and Lando, his grin dimming into something unsure, tentative.

Gigi’s brow creased softly, his gaze flicking to the stillness of Carlos’ hand under Lando’s. Guzmán shifted his weight, the lightness pulling out of his face as the shape of the moment settled around them.

Reyes rose gently, touching Lando’s arm with a tender, almost maternal brush. “Lando, cariño…” she said, voice low, apologetic, heartbreakingly kind. “We should tell you something.”

Lando blinked, brows knitting faintly, thumb faltering against Carlos’ skin. “What?” he asked softly, a faint breath of a laugh under the word, as if bracing for something small. His eyes flicked up, his mouth pulling in a shaky, hopeful curve. “He’s okay, yeah?” His hand tightened just a little, as if grounding both of them.

Carlos felt the word cariño pull strangely at the edge of his thoughts — soft, familiar, not for him. Not just for him.

Reyes drew in a breath, her thumb brushing once more over Lando’s arm, her eyes wet. “His last memory,” she said gently, “is Monza. Last year.” Her voice thickened faintly. “He doesn’t remember anything after that, Lando. Nothing at all.”

For a beat, Lando went still.

Carlos felt it — the way the warmth of Lando’s hand tensed, gripped too tight, then slackened, like the weight in it had snapped loose. He felt the hitch of Lando’s breath, the tiny shift of his shoulders pulling back, the way his thumb stopped moving altogether.

Lando let out a breath, a small, shaky sound, almost like surprise punched out of him. His jaw worked, his throat moved, and Carlos watched — helpless, confused — as Lando’s hand drew back slowly, almost carefully, fingers uncurling from his, slipping away as if in slow motion.

The loss of that touch hit sharper than it should have. Carlos felt his chest contract, his breath catch, his fingers twitch faintly in the space left behind. He wanted to ask — what? why? — but the words stayed lodged, heavy and useless in his mouth.

Lando shifted his weight, hands shoving into his pockets, shoulders tight, chin dipping briefly toward his chest. He didn’t crumple; he didn’t break. He just stood there, every line of his body drawn in, locked down, the edges of him trembling with the effort not to show more.

Carlos watched, heart hammering, the silence stretching between them wide and aching. He didn’t understand why it mattered, why it felt like something inside him had been knocked out of place. He only knew the cold where Lando’s hand had been, the sharp ache it left behind, and the heavy, splintered thing caught under his ribs that no one had named yet.

Near the door, Teto shifted, eyes flicking away. Gigi’s mouth pressed thin, gaze lowered. Guzmán stood back, awkward, uncertain, his hands fidgeting briefly before falling still.

Reyes sank softly back to the chair, her hand sliding to Carlos’ wrist again, thumb brushing small, grounding circles there. Carlos Sr stood by the window, arms folded, his face hard, unreadable, eyes shadowed.

And Carlos lay there, his breath shaking faintly out, watching the space between himself and Lando — a space stretched thin, trembling, aching with something he didn’t have the words for, not yet.

*~*~*~*~*

The room emptied slowly, like a tide pulling back: Teto with a rough clasp of Carlos’ foot through the blanket, too-bright grin that didn’t reach his eyes; Guzmán murmuring something about food, clapping Caco on the back; Gigi lingering near the door, eyes flicking one last time to Carlos, soft and unreadable.

And Lando — Lando went last.

He hovered for a breath too long near the door, hands shoved deep in his hoodie pockets, head ducked slightly as if against wind, shoulders stiff under the rumpled fabric. Carlos watched the subtle pull of breath in his chest, the clench of his jaw, the sharp little tilt of his chin as though he was trying to force something still. For half a second, Lando’s foot shifted, a small step like he might turn back — and then the door clicked softly behind him, leaving a hush in his place.

Carlos lay back, the air cold where Lando’s hand had been, the faint ghost of pressure still at the edge of his skin. His fingers twitched once, then stilled, pressed flat to the blanket.

Reyes was close, thumb brushing lightly along his wrist, murmuring something soft he didn’t quite catch. His father stood at the window, arms folded, gaze turned out into the grey light, shoulders tense.

The hum of the machines filled the silence. A shift of fabric. The faint squeak of the chair.

Carlos let his eyes fall half-shut, the weight of his body pulling heavy against the bed. His chest ached, his ribs sharp with each breath, the dull throb of his leg somewhere distant, detached. His head swam faintly, little flashes at the corners of his mind — Teto’s voice, Guzmán’s grin, Gigi’s quiet eyes — Lando’s hand, warm, sure, slipping away.

He exhaled, slow, uneven.

Outside the window, the sky blurred, a wash of pale light. The room smelled like soap and cold air, like flowers someone must have brought, like too many hours of holding still.

Carlos drifted, not thinking, not yet. Just the hush of voices, the press of the pillow against his skull, the strange, hollow space where the last twelve months should have been.

*~*~*~*~*

The morning seeped in pale and grey, a soft wash of light sliding between the blinds, painting faint stripes across the floor. Somewhere in the corridor, wheels clattered lightly, a voice called out, bright and businesslike. A trolley passed, then faded again into quiet.

Carlos lay still, eyes half-open, neck stiff against the pillow, body aching in slow pulses. His ribs tugged sharply if he breathed too deep, his shoulder throbbed with a dull, heavy drag, and his leg prickled with the tight, itching discomfort of disuse. But it wasn’t the pain that kept him still. It was the shape of the room in the morning light — too empty, too quiet. No Reyes curled in the chair. No hushed voices. No one checking if he was awake.

His fingers drifted over the blanket, slow, tracing the crease near his hip. The machines clicked softly beside him, steady, indifferent. His mouth was dry, his skull thick with the drag of broken sleep, and his chest felt tight, like it was holding something that didn’t quite belong to him.

A nurse came in quietly, her smile warm but brisk, offering a soft greeting in Italian before slipping into English. She checked the monitors, adjusted his IV, and helped him sit up higher against the pillows. Carlos gritted his teeth against the shift, breath stuttering through his nose. She left a tray — pale broth, juice, something sweet he didn’t want — and murmured a few gentle words before she slipped out again, the door hushing shut behind her.

And then he was alone again.

His gaze wandered to the window. The sky outside was washed-out, nondescript. Madrid flickered at the edge of his thoughts — not the city itself, but the race. Flags in the crowd, the hum of engines, the way the whole paddock would buzz. His face on billboards. His name chanted through grandstands. The first ever Madrid GP.

His home Grand Prix.

Carlos blinked hard, his throat catching. His fingers curled slowly into the blanket. He should have been there. He was meant to be there.

But it wasn’t just the missing that stung — it was the not knowing. The jagged blanks in his mind. The way people looked at him like they were bracing for something he hadn’t yet remembered.

The ache pressed tighter in his chest. He didn’t know how he’d got here. Didn’t remember the crash. Didn’t know what mistake he’d made, or how long he’d been unconscious. He didn’t even know how Lando had looked at him the way he had. That moment — fingers tangled with his own, warm and steady and oddly familiar — kept circling back, soft and insistent.

It wasn’t strange that Lando had come. Of course it wasn’t. They were friends. Old friends. Good friends. Years of circuits and flights and hotel bars, rounds of golf, late-night calls after bad races, sharp jokes in the paddock that softened at the edges when they were alone.

Carlos remembered all of that. He remembered Lando all grin and elbows, quick feet and faster hands, a voice that curved around a laugh like it couldn’t help itself.

But the way his hand had felt, folded into Carlos’ like it belonged there — that was…

Carlos let out a rough breath and pressed the heel of his hand to his eyes, hard. It was nothing. He was tired. Shaken. Everything was tangled.

Behind his eyelids, memory flickered — not full scenes, just fragments. A hotel balcony. A voice in his ear. Blue and papaya streaking past. Laughter, spun out like light in the dark. A cool hand at the back of his neck.

He reached for it, somewhere deep inside, but it slipped away, too thin to hold.

The blanket rustled faintly as he turned his head, cheek brushing the pillow. His breath shook out slowly. Outside the window, the sky stretched pale and unreachable, and the day kept moving without him

*~*~*~*~*

By late morning, they came to check on him. A nurse arrived first, gentle-voiced, explaining they’d run through some light stretches, balance checks, a short walk down the hall. Then the physio came in, young and smiling, hair tucked into a neat clip, her voice warm but firm, the kind people used with athletes — someone stubborn, someone determined.

Carlos let them help him upright, jaw clenched tight as sweat prickled faintly at his hairline. His ribs tugged sharp with the shift, his shoulder ached like a pulled knot, and his leg felt stiff, the muscles heavy and unresponsive after too long without use. When they swung his legs over the side of the bed, the floor seemed too close and too far at once, the light slanting through the window almost too bright. His head throbbed dully, like pressure caught behind his eyes.

“Easy,” the physio murmured, one hand at his elbow, the other at his back. “Let’s take it slow, okay? You’re not proving anything today.”

Carlos pressed his hands to the mattress, breathing through his nose. He hated the tremble in his fingers, the tension in his jaw, the awareness of his father’s quiet voice by the window, low on the phone. He caught the soft edge of Reyes’ voice near him, gentle Spanish coaxing him along, as if the sound alone could make it easier.

They walked the length of the room, maybe twice — short, dragging steps, balance just slightly off, ribs pulling if he moved too quickly, shoulder twinging if he shifted wrong. The physio kept a light touch at his arm, steady but unobtrusive, her voice a calm thread beside him. Carlos focused hard on his footing, on keeping his breath even, on not snapping at the kind, patient encouragement that grated raw against his pride.

When he sat back down, easing carefully onto the edge of the bed, sweat slicked faintly at his temples. His heart thudded fast, too loud in his chest, and his hands braced hard at his knees. Reyes was close in an instant, brushing damp curls off his forehead, her voice soft at his ear. His father lingered near the window, arms folded, gaze turned outward, the faint line between his brows deepening.

The physio crouched beside him, her hand light at his shoulder. “Good start today,” she murmured, her smile small, genuine. “We’ll go again tomorrow. Keep moving, keep loosening up. It’s early days — you’re doing well.”

Carlos gave a small, rough exhale, dragging a hand briefly over his mouth, his chin, his breath still uneven. His jaw tightened, a sharp ache curling low in his chest. Four months, they’d said. Four months until anyone would even talk about a return to race fitness. He’d raced on a torn ligament. He’d driven with cracked ribs, a stomach virus, exhaustion knotted tight in his spine. He’d pushed through things no one had seen, things no one should have. Four months. Fuck four months.

He squeezed his eyes shut for a breath, feeling the pulse in his temples, the restless twitch in his hands — hands that still remembered the wheel, still itched for it, even if the rest of him had fallen behind. Tomorrow, he told himself, dragging in a breath through his nose, jaw set tight. Tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow had to be better.

*~*~*~*~*

The room was quiet again.

Not the unnatural quiet of the machines at night, but the soft hush of late afternoon, the kind that held footsteps slipping past the door, low voices at the nurses’ station, the faint clatter of a trolley somewhere down the hall.

Carlos lay still under the blanket, every part of his body heavy and uncooperative. His shoulder ached deep, his ribs pulled sharp if he breathed too hard, his leg felt like it belonged to someone else. But it wasn’t the pain that pinned him there — it was the exhaustion, deep and bone-heavy, the kind that settled not just in the muscles but in the skin, the breath, the marrow.

The door clicked open softly.

He didn’t move. Only let his eyes shift faintly to the side, lids low, breath shallow.

Lando.

Carlos watched him step in alone — no loud greetings, no bustle of friends, no scatter of energy spilling into the room. Just Lando, shoulders drawn in under a pale hoodie, a bag slung crosswise over his chest, a few books tucked under his arm. His hair was flattened messily to one side, eyes shadowed underneath, mouth pulled tight in a way that made something stir low and uneasy in Carlos’ chest.

For a second, Lando hesitated at the door. His weight shifted faintly on his feet, his fingers curling a little tighter where they gripped the books. Then his eyes lifted, meeting Carlos’, and just for a heartbeat, his face eased — not into a grin, not into anything bright, but into something softer, something faintly shaped like relief.

“Hey,” Lando murmured, voice quiet. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

Carlos felt his mouth tug faintly, the barest edge of a smile that wasn’t really a smile, just the memory of one. His throat worked dryly before the words made it out. “Wasn’t asleep.” His voice cracked faintly on the last word, rough as sandpaper.

Lando’s brows lifted a little, his mouth tugging just slightly at the corner. He took the few steps to the chair by the bed, lowered himself into it like he was trying not to take up space.

“Brought you something,” he said, lifting the books with a half-smile, like he was only half convinced it wasn’t a stupid idea. “A couple cycling ones. I figured — I don’t know — maybe something to read when you’re bored of the ceiling.”

Carlos huffed faintly, a sound too small to be a laugh, but something near it. His chest tightened softly, the hollow space there aching in a way he wasn’t sure how to hold. “Thanks,” he murmured.

“Yeah,” Lando said, voice brushing light over the word. He set the books on the little table beside the bed, fingers fussing absently at their edges, straightening the pile once, then again.

For a moment, the air felt delicate, like they were both waiting for the other to break it. Carlos let his eyes drift half-shut, not quite ready to carry the weight of talking, of making it easy.

“I, uh…” Lando cleared his throat lightly. “I saw your physio leaving earlier. Said you did pretty good today.”

Carlos’ mouth tilted faintly, a dry, small thing. “Four steps,” he murmured.

Lando let out a soft breath, half a laugh, half not. “That’s — hey, that’s four more than yesterday, yeah?”

A faint twitch passed through Carlos’ fingers where they rested near the blanket’s edge. He opened his eyes again, slow, heavy-lidded, watched the slight fold between Lando’s brows, the restless way his fingers tapped once against his knee.

“You don’t have to stay,” Carlos murmured, voice barely shaped. He meant it — meant to let Lando off the hook, to give him the out, because God knew Carlos didn’t have the energy for more company, didn’t have the shape of the right words.

But Lando’s mouth flickered into something smaller, gentler, head shaking just slightly. “I know,” he said softly. “But I want to.”

For a moment, Carlos let himself feel it — the way those words settled into the air, the quiet they left behind. He shifted faintly, the faintest drag of his fingers under the blanket, like they wanted to reach, like they didn’t know how. His mouth tugged faintly, almost a smile, the corner of it softening with a breath. He didn’t know what to say, didn’t trust the raw scrape in his throat to shape anything right.

Lando watched him, the small crease still between his brows, eyes bright but tired. He shifted in his chair, elbow resting loosely on the armrest, fingers brushing absently over the corner of the book.

Carlos let his gaze drift — over the slope of Lando’s shoulders under the faded hoodie, the pale freckles dusting his forearm, the faint smudge of exhaustion under his eyes. There was something in his chest, a tug, a pull, an ache that sharpened and softened all at once. He didn’t know the shape of it, didn’t know the name.

He drew a slow breath. “Thanks,” he murmured roughly, the word rasping through the weight in his throat. His fingers shifted slightly on the blanket, as if they wanted to reach for something they didn’t know how to touch.

Lando’s mouth twitched, a flicker of a smile returning, small and a little unsteady. “Anytime,” he said quietly. His thumb swept once more along the book’s edge, eyes flicking down, then back up, holding Carlos’ gaze for a long, still moment.

Neither of them spoke. The room held around them, soft and quiet, like something bracing itself gently against the break.

*~*~*~*~*

Carlos drifted again after Lando left, not quite asleep but not fully here either, his body caught between the slow weight of exhaustion and the flicker of thoughts he couldn’t hold still. The room settled around him — a hush in the corners, the faint beeping of the monitors, the cool slip of air from the vent overhead. He let his fingers lie open against the blanket, the ache in his shoulder sharp if he moved too much, his ribs pulling tight if he drew too deep a breath.

He thought, distantly, of the books Lando had brought — the bright covers stacked neatly on the table, their clean edges, their quiet promise. He remembered Lando’s voice when he’d mentioned them, the way his mouth had twitched with something like fondness as he’d nudged the top one closer. “Figured you’d want to catch up on all the races you missed — or, you know, just obsess over carbon frames and gear ratios for a bit.”

Carlos exhaled slowly, a faint, dry sound in his throat. He could picture it so easily — the way Lando’s hands had flicked lightly at the pages, the restless curl of his fingers, the quick flash of his smile, small and lopsided, when he thought Carlos wasn’t watching.

He let his eyes close, the weight of the afternoon pressing low against his chest, the sounds of the ward softening at the edges. His mind floated unevenly, scraps of memory sliding in and out of reach — cheers in the paddock, a press of voices at the media pen, Lando laughing into his shoulder after a golf shot gone wrong, the cool grip of a steering wheel under his palms. His throat tightened faintly, something sharp pressing against the base of his sternum.

Outside, the light thinned to early evening, the edges of the blinds glowing faintly gold. He heard his mother’s voice before he saw her — soft, lilting, a question for one of the nurses, the familiar rhythm of her Spanish slipping warm through the air. He let it wash over him, a quiet tether pulling him back toward the surface.

The door opened softly. Reyes slipped back in, her cardigan pulled close, a small plastic bag dangling from one wrist. She smiled when she saw his eyes open, brushing her hand lightly over his hair as she sat down. “I brought you something,” she murmured, setting the bag on the side table. “A bit of jamón, some biscuits. Don’t tell the nurses.”

Carlos gave a faint, rough huff of breath, the sound catching in his chest. Reyes smoothed the blanket over his ribs, her fingers lingering against his wrist. “Ana spoke to Rebecca earlier,” she said gently after a pause. “She asked after you.”

The name tugged sharp and unexpected in the air. Carlos frowned, blinking toward her. “Rebecca?” His voice cracked faintly. “Why— why isn’t she here?”

Reyes hesitated, her thumb brushing lightly over his skin. Her eyes softened, wet at the corners. “Cariño… you and Rebecca ended things. Almost a year ago.”

For a beat, Carlos only stared, the words settling like stones in his chest. He tried to summon something — a memory, an argument, a goodbye — but there was nothing. Only the blank wall where the past year should have lived. His ribs pulled tight as he swallowed, his voice coming low, flat. “I don’t… I don’t remember.”

Reyes’ fingers pressed tenderly around his wrist. “That’s all right, mi amor,” she whispered. “You don’t need to right now.”

Carlos turned his gaze toward the window, pale light spilling across the floorboards, his throat tight against the hollow ache spreading under his ribs. A whole piece of his life gone — and he didn’t even know why. He let his eyes fall half-shut again, the sounds of the ward soft at the edges, the ghost of Lando’s hand still vivid against his own. And for a while, he didn’t think. He just let himself be held there, in that narrow slip of quiet, the world waiting on the far side of the door.

*~*~*~*~*

The knock was soft, almost hesitant. Carlos turned his head against the pillow, slow and deliberate, ribs pulling faintly at the movement.

The door eased open, and Lando slipped inside. Hoodie tugged up around his throat, hair still damp at the edges like he’d showered quickly and not quite dried it. His trainers scuffed softly on the floor, his hands buried deep in his pockets. He paused just inside the room, eyes flicking briefly to the machines at Carlos’ side, then to Carlos himself, something small and tight working at the corner of his mouth.

“Hey,” Lando said, his voice low, almost cautious. “You up for company?”

Carlos let out a thin breath, the faintest of nods. “Yeah.”

Lando crossed the room, setting something carefully on the little table beside the bed. “Brought you something.” His mouth twitched at one corner, a quick glance up. “Got the Tour highlights — figured you’d rather that than… whatever’s on hospital telly.”

Carlos’ fingers shifted faintly under the blanket, eyes drifting to the small plastic stick on the table. “Thanks.” His voice scraped low in his throat, the syllables slow and clumsy, like his mouth was still learning how to hold them.

Lando sank into the chair by the bed, elbows braced on his knees, fingers loosely linked. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The room filled with the hush of the monitors, the faint breath of air-conditioning, the soft weight of everything unspoken.

“Madrid,” Carlos murmured after a while, voice low but steadier now. “You heading out?”

Lando nodded. “Tonight.”

He didn’t add anything else. He didn’t need to. The weight of a race weekend — the noise, the scrutiny, the constant movement — hung between them without being named.

Carlos exhaled through his nose, eyes drifting closed for a moment. His brow creased faintly.

A beat.

Then, quieter, almost like it slipped out uninvited—

“Was it you?” he asked quietly. “Last year. The title.”

There was the barest pause — a breath caught between them — and then Lando dipped his head in a small nod, shoulders barely shifting.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, it was.”

Carlos let his gaze drift up to the ceiling again, the light striping across it in pale lines. His fingers curled slightly at his side, a quiet ache tightening beneath his ribs.

“Fuck,” he whispered, voice catching rough in his throat. “I missed it.”

Lando’s mouth opened, then closed. His hands rubbed once together, then stilled in his lap.

“You didn’t,” he said softly. “You didn’t miss it.”

Carlos blinked slowly, something wet and tight gathering at the back of his throat, the corners of his eyes. He turned his head slightly, breath catching faintly. “Wish I remembered.”

Lando let out a slow breath, something passing across his face — small, flickering, almost tender. He hesitated, then reached for the water on the bedside, twisting the cap, holding it out. “You want?”

Carlos gave the faintest nod, and Lando leaned forward, slow and careful, helping him lift just enough to sip. Their hands brushed, light as anything, and for a second Carlos felt it sharp and strange — not the touch itself, but the ache it left in its wake.

When Carlos eased back against the pillows, Lando set the bottle aside, sitting back into the chair. He glanced around the room, eyes skimming over the flowers on the windowsill, the faint curl of paper at the edge of a get-well card. His hands settled loose over his knees, fingers tapping absently.

“Do you know when you’ll get out of here?” he asked, voice quiet, almost tentative.

Carlos gave a small, lopsided twitch of his mouth. “They won’t say yet,” he murmured, voice low. “Cleared to walk a bit. Just… slower than I want.”

Lando huffed softly, mouth pulling into something between a smile and a wince. “You? Wanting to push too soon?” His eyebrows lifted, teasing gently. “Shocking.”

Carlos’ mouth twitched faintly, almost a smile. “Bastard.”

Lando grinned, brief but real, and for a second it loosened something tight in Carlos’ chest.

For a moment, Carlos just watched him — the tired set of his shoulders, the faint purple under his eyes, the way his thumb worried absently at a loose thread on his sleeve. He looked young and worn at once, the season etched into his skin.

“You’re tired,” Carlos murmured before he could stop himself.

Lando gave a soft, breathless laugh, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Yeah, well.” He let his hand drop. “Long year.”

Carlos’ mouth tugged faintly. “Yeah.”

They sat like that a while longer — the hush stretching soft between them, easy in a way that slipped under the skin.

Eventually, Lando shifted, glancing at his watch, then up again. “I should… probably head. Flight’s not late, but.” He didn’t finish the sentence, just let it trail off with a faint motion of his hand.

Carlos’ throat tightened faintly. “Thanks,” he murmured, voice low.

Lando stood, hands tucking into his pockets. For a moment, he hesitated — his weight shifting like he might lean in, say something more — then just gave a small nod, eyes catching Carlos’ for half a breath.

“I’ll come back after,” he said quietly. “Soon as I can.”

Carlos watched him go, the soft click of the door leaving the room a little too still, a little too wide. He let his eyes drift shut, the hum of the machines steady in his ear, the faint, absurd weight of a Tour de France USB by his hand.

His chest ached — ribs, yes. But more than that. Something softer. Something slower. He let out a breath, slow and uneven, and let the hush settle back over him, filling the space where Lando had been.

*~*~*~*~*

The morning came thin and colourless, a pale wash through the blinds that made the room look smaller somehow, flatter. The noise of the ward went on — wheels squeaking faintly against the linoleum, low voices threading the corridor — but it felt muted, distant, like the volume had been turned down overnight.

Carlos shifted carefully against the pillows, the ache in his ribs sharp with the movement. His body felt heavy, not with sleep but with the drag of something slower, emptier. The chair by the window sat unoccupied, a faint indentation in the cushion where Reyes must have curled herself hours earlier before slipping out. The table beside him looked almost bare, save for the neat stack of books and the little plastic stick Lando had left behind.

Lando.

The thought came uninvited, his chest tightening before he could push it aside. He could still feel the faint echo of weight where Lando’s hand had rested on his, the careful pressure of his fingers when he’d held the water bottle steady. He hadn’t known what to do with it then; he didn’t know now.

The nurse came and went, brisk but kind, checking the machines, asking if he’d eaten. He nodded vaguely, though the tray at the edge of the bed sat untouched. She gave him a smile that almost made him feel guilty and slipped out again, leaving the quiet behind.

He reached for the top book on the pile, fingertips brushing the edge before pausing. The cover showed a cyclist bent low over the bars, face obscured by helmet and shadow. He turned it over slowly, skimming the back without really reading, then set it back down. The USB caught his eye, its pale plastic stark against the wood of the table. He didn’t move to touch it.

Madrid would already be humming by now. He could picture it in shards — the grid crowded with bodies, the noise rolling like surf, the red and yellow flags rippling along the grandstands. He tried to imagine Lando there, face turned to the sun, his name loud on the air. Tried, and failed, because the image kept blurring with something else — Lando in the chair beside him, quiet and careful, thumb brushing along the edge of a book as if it mattered.

Carlos let out a slow breath, pressing his hand briefly against his eyes. He wasn’t used to this kind of stillness, the kind that pressed in instead of easing out. He wanted movement, noise, something to grip onto — a car under him, a track unfolding ahead, a purpose sharper than this endless waiting. Instead, there was the faint scent of antiseptic, the weight of sheets over his legs, and the small, ridiculous ache of missing something he couldn’t name.

When Reyes returned mid-morning, carrying another small bag of food she wasn’t supposed to bring, she smiled at him gently, smoothing her hand over his hair like she had when he was small.

“You should watch what Lando brought you,” she said softly, glancing at the little plastic stick. “Might help pass the time.”

Carlos made a low, noncommittal sound, his fingers twitching faintly at the edge of the blanket. He told her he might later, though he wasn’t sure yet if he could bear it — the idea of watching other men’s races, other men’s victories, when he couldn’t even remember his own.

Still, when she settled into the chair and began unpacking the contraband jamón and biscuits, his eyes kept sliding back to the USB. Small, unremarkable, ordinary — and yet it sat there like a weight, a quiet promise of movement, of roads he hadn’t ridden, of colour and noise he’d missed.

Maybe later, he thought. When the ward was quieter. When he was alone.

*~*~*~*~*

The cycling footage ran steady across the laptop screen, the sound of whirring gears and the sharp slap of tyres on tarmac filling the quiet room. Carlos sat propped against the pillows, the laptop balanced carefully on the tray over his legs. His ribs ached with every shift, but the distraction of the peloton — the rhythm of climbs and descents, the commentary flowing easy in the background — held him steady enough to ignore it.

When the stage ended, the screen dropped back to the file menu. A neat list of folders. Each one labelled clearly — Étape 1, Étape 2, Étape 3… His thumb hovered absently over the trackpad, debating which to click next.

And then he saw it.

Tucked at the bottom of the list, not in bold or hidden, just there. Abu Dhabi 2025 – Full Race.

His chest tightened.

For a long moment, he didn’t move. The words blurred slightly under his gaze, his pulse thudding too loud in his ears. He could almost hear Lando’s voice when he’d handed him the stick — offhand, casual. Got the Tour highlights. Nothing more. No mention of this. No warning.

Carlos’ thumb brushed faintly over the trackpad, his throat dry. He could close the laptop. He could stick with the Tour, stay in the safe rhythm of climbs and sprints and breakaways. But the file sat there all the same, quiet and patient, offering him something he hadn’t realised he wanted until now.

He clicked.

The screen burst bright with floodlights. Yas Marina blazing under the night sky. The engines screamed through the speakers, sharp and alive. Carlos’ breath caught, ribs flaring under the pressure as the memory of the sound surged through him — achingly familiar and impossibly far away. His fingers tensed faintly where they rested on the blanket, following the motion, lap after lap, eyes fixed and unmoving.

The minutes slid past in silence but for the pulse of tyres on tarmac, the rising rhythm of pit wall chatter, the faint lift of breath each time the cameras cut to turn one. The camera followed the last lap — papaya orange at the front. Lando. The commentary swelled, voices climbing with the tension, the crowd behind it like a single roar. His breath caught again, ribs flaring sharp as the chequered flag dropped, as the words rang out clear and exultant.

Lando Norris — World Champion!

Carlos’ chest pulled tight, his fingers curling hard into the blanket. He watched the orange streak flash across the line, saw the pit wall erupt, the McLaren garage spilling forward.

And then — the camera cut. Parc fermé. Cars pulling in, engines winding down. And there he was. Himself. Blue Williams suit, helmet off, sweat darkening the collar. He saw himself step forward, arms already open, and then Lando — helmet dangling from one hand, face lit wild with disbelief and joy — crashed into him.

The hug hit like a punch. He could see it — his arms tight around Lando, pulling him close, holding him longer than the cameras expected. Lando’s face pressed into his shoulder, laugh breaking loud into the fabric there. And his own face — smiling, wide, unguarded. Something more flickering just at the edges.

Carlos’ throat burned. He couldn’t remember the heat of it, the weight of Lando’s body against his, the sound of his laugh so close to his ear. He could only watch it, helpless, as if it belonged to someone else. On the screen, they pulled back, their faces split into grins, eyes bright, words lost under the noise of the crowd. The footage cut away then — to podium, to champagne, to the world celebrating what Carlos couldn’t feel in his bones.

He sat back slowly, the remote loose in his hand, the ache in his chest sharper than any of the physio had pulled from him earlier. Lando had left it for him. Quietly. Carefully. Not pushed, not forced. Just there, waiting, in case Carlos wanted to see what he couldn’t remember.

His breath shook out uneven, ribs flaring under the pressure. He pressed the heel of his hand briefly to his eyes, blinking hard, the sting sharp behind them. The screen shimmered with motion — the crowd roaring, champagne arcing silver under the lights, and Lando lifting the trophy high, smile brilliant through the blur of Carlos’ vision.

His thumb slid the bar back, a small, almost hesitant motion, until the footage rewound to parc fermé. The moment unfolded again: Lando crossing into view, helmet dangling, grin breaking wide, and then himself — arms already lifting, pulling Lando in close.

Carlos watched the embrace replay, the press of bodies, the shake of Lando’s laugh against his shoulder. He hadn’t realised he’d been holding his breath until it let out, slow, unsteady. The footage shifted, showing them breaking apart, still smiling, faces open and bright. He saw himself looking at Lando, longer than the noise around them seemed to account for. The expression unsettled him — something raw edged into the joy, a softness he couldn’t place.

He dragged the bar back again, slower this time, letting the moment stretch. Lando’s face lit, unguarded, his mouth moving with words the crowd drowned out. Carlos’ own smile in return felt like a stranger’s, familiar only at the edges. It tugged at him strangely, a weight low in his chest. Not quite memory, not quite longing — just a sense of having lost something he couldn’t define. He blinked, the picture blurring faintly, then steadied, as if the longer he stared, the closer he might get to understanding it.

But the answer didn’t come. Only the echo of a feeling he couldn’t name, lingering in the still frame as the speakers hummed soft with the crowd’s roar.

*~*~*~*~*

The laptop sat closed on the tray now, the room dipped in the soft hush of evening. Shadows stretched long across the walls, the blinds cutting faint slants of light onto the floor. The low hum of the machines threaded steady in the quiet, a rhythm Carlos tried to anchor himself to.

He lay back against the pillows, ribs aching with every breath, the faint throb in his shoulder pulsing in time with the beat. His eyes stayed fixed on the ceiling, but the images behind them were sharper than the plaster above.

The race had blurred together once the champagne sprayed, the podium lit bright against the night sky. But the hug — that he couldn’t let go of. He’d scrolled back to it without meaning to, watched his own arms wrap around Lando, pulling him close, holding him tight. Watched the way Lando had come into him without hesitation, laughter breaking loose against his shoulder, face pressed close enough that the camera couldn’t quite catch the expression.

It had been nothing. A friend celebrating a friend. That was all. That had to be all.

And yet — the longer he’d looked, the more the edges had unsettled him. The way his own mouth had curved, wide and unguarded, the kind of smile that felt strange to see on himself. The way Lando’s eyes had lit when they pulled apart, bright and intent, as if Carlos had been the only person there in the middle of the noise.

He shifted faintly against the pillows, jaw tightening, the ache in his ribs flaring sharp. It didn’t mean anything. He was tired. He was shaken. He was missing a year, for God’s sake. Of course everything looked strange, out of step.

Still — the ghost of it stayed. The press of an arm around his back, the sound of Lando’s laugh against his ear, the weight of something in that moment he couldn’t name.

Carlos dragged a hand over his face, pressing hard at his eyes until the sting ebbed. His fingers curled tight against his palm as he lowered it again, the blanket rough under his skin. He tried to focus on his breathing, slow and steady, tried to think of the Tour highlights still waiting on the stick, of the physio’s plan for tomorrow, of anything else.

But when his eyes slipped shut again, it was Lando’s face that came back — close, unguarded, lit bright with something Carlos couldn’t place. And no matter how he tried, the hug replayed again, quiet and insistent, as if his body remembered more than his head was ready to admit.

*~*~*~*~*

Saturday evening settled soft around the hospital room, the television screen throwing pale light across the sheets. Carlos sat propped against the pillows, careful with his ribs, remote resting loosely in his hand. His shoulder ached faintly if he shifted too much, and his leg was stiff from the short laps of the corridor earlier, but none of it held his attention. Not compared to the stream of images in front of him.

Qualifying had just finished. Madrid’s new street circuit, heat shimmering off the tarmac, and there was Lando — helmet under his arm, grin split wide as he climbed from the car. The commentators filled the quiet room, their voices running quick with excitement: pole position.

Carlos let out a breath through his nose, slow and steady, watching as Lando disappeared into the small press room. The lighting was harsh, flat, designed for clarity rather than warmth, but Lando seemed to glow all the same, energy running through every line of him.

He leaned forward slightly as he spoke, quick, smiling, gesturing with the hand not holding the microphone. His voice, even softened through the speakers, carried that familiar upward lilt when he got excited. The words blurred together for Carlos after a while — something about tyres, about managing the last sector — but the expression on Lando’s face was sharp enough to hold him. Bright. Determined. A little restless, like he couldn’t quite sit still even in triumph.

When the press conference ended, the image cut back to the studio, analysis spilling quick and neat. Carlos muted the sound, leaning back carefully against the pillows. His thumb brushed over the remote absently, his gaze still fixed on the screen though it no longer showed Lando.

An hour later, the phone on the little table beside him lit up. The name stopped him for a breath — Lando. He swallowed, reached, careful of the pull in his ribs, and thumbed the call through.

“Hola,” he rasped, voice low, rougher than he meant.

There was a short silence, then Lando’s voice — warm, quick, threaded with something softer. “You watched?”

Carlos shifted slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching faintly though it never quite reached a smile. “Yeah. Pole.” His throat worked. “Congrats.”

A soft laugh on the other end, light but tired. “Cheers. Felt… good. Proper good.”

Carlos closed his eyes briefly, the sound settling under his skin. “Looked it.”

Another pause, the faint sound of Lando moving — maybe leaning back, maybe running a hand over his face. “I thought about you, you know. When I crossed the line.”

Carlos blinked slowly, something pulling tight low in his stomach. He didn’t know what to say to that, didn’t even know what it meant. His fingers twitched against the blanket, restless.

“Wish you were here,” Lando added softly, almost a murmur.

Carlos’ throat closed tight. He forced a breath through, quiet and careful. “Me too.” The words felt bare in his mouth, stripped down, nothing to shield them.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. Just full. Carlos shifted faintly against the pillows, the fabric whispering under him, careful of the tug in his ribs. He should have been tired — his body ached with it — but with Lando’s voice in his ear, sleep felt like something far away.

He could hear the soft hitch of breath on the other end, not words yet, just the sound of Lando holding the line as if he wasn’t quite ready to let go. Carlos pictured him without meaning to — hotel room, half-lit, head tipped back against a chair, fingers restless on the phone. The image stirred something low and unsettled in his chest.

“You’ll watch tomorrow?” Lando asked finally, voice quiet, tentative.

Carlos’ thumb dragged once over the edge of the blanket. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

There was a small pause, the faint scrape of movement through the line, and then Lando’s laugh — not bright, not easy, but soft and breathless, like it had slipped past him by accident. “Good. I—” He stopped, silence folding quick and awkward in its place.

Carlos swallowed, throat tightening, waiting.

“Doesn’t feel right without you,” Lando said at last, low and unsteady, like it had cost him to say it.

Carlos blinked, shoulders tensing with a jolt he didn’t fully understand. The words lodged deep, heavier than they had any right to. He didn’t know why they landed that way, why his ribs ached more with them than with anything the physio had asked of him that morning. He should have laughed, brushed it off. But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

Instead, he managed quietly, “You’ll do fine.”

“I know,” Lando murmured, and there was a trace of a smile there, softening the edges. Then, almost too quiet to catch: “Just… better with you.”

Carlos closed his eyes, the burn sharp behind them. Better with you. He turned the words over carefully, like they were something fragile he wasn’t supposed to be holding. He wanted to ask what Lando meant, wanted to press until he had an answer. But the thought of hearing it aloud — of having to face it — sent a sharp twist through his chest.

So he said nothing.

On the line, Lando shifted, the faint scrape of fabric, the soft sound of his breathing steady and near. It was ridiculous how close it felt, how the silence didn’t push Carlos away but pulled him tighter, like the quiet itself was something shared.

When Lando finally said, “I should go — early start,” Carlos managed only a rough, low, “Yeah.”

“Sleep if you can,” Lando added, his voice softer now, like he was speaking from closer than a hotel room in Madrid.

Carlos hummed faintly, the sound catching in his throat. “Buena suerte mañana.”

“Gracias,” Lando said, almost tender. A pause. “Night, Carlos.”

The line clicked off, leaving Carlos staring at the faint light on the muted television. The room felt too still without the sound of Lando’s breath, the quiet pressing heavy against his chest. He flexed his fingers once against the blanket, as if testing the space where another hand might have been, and let out a slow, uneven breath.

*~*~*~*~*

The knock came just after lunch, soft against the doorframe. Dr. Bianchi stepped inside with the quiet confidence Carlos had come to recognise, her smile warm but steady as she glanced at the monitors, then at him.

Reyes straightened in her chair, smoothing the edge of her cardigan, while Ana shifted forward from the windowsill, legs uncurling beneath her. Carlos Sr set his phone aside on the little table, his eyes already on the doctor, posture tall and intent.

“Good afternoon,” Dr. Bianchi greeted, her voice gentle. “I’ve had a look at the latest scans and your progress with physio.” She paused, the faintest smile tugging her mouth. “I think we’re ready to let you go home tomorrow.”

Carlos blinked, the words taking a moment to settle. His chest pulled tight under the slow rise of breath. Home. Not a hospital bed, not the antiseptic hush of the ward, but his own space. The thought should have felt like relief, but instead it landed heavy, uncertain, a weight shifting through him.

Reyes’ hand covered his on the blanket, warm and trembling faintly. “You hear that, mi niño?” she whispered. “Tomorrow.”

Carlos swallowed, his throat rough. “I… can go home.”

Dr. Bianchi’s smile softened, though her tone remained even. “Yes, though there are conditions. No flying for at least a few weeks — the cabin pressure would be too hard on your head while it’s still healing. A car journey is much safer. And you’ll need support. Someone with you, all the time, for the first few weeks. You’re not fully independent yet.”

His ribs tugged sharply when he shifted against the pillows, a frown drawing his brows. “Support,” he repeated, his voice low.

The doctor nodded. “Help with meals, with moving around, making sure you don’t overexert yourself. You’ll need physio, too — light, but daily.”

Ana leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees. “We’ll manage,” she said quickly, almost before Carlos could form the words. Her voice carried a steadiness that made Reyes glance at her, something like gratitude passing between them.

Carlos Sr’s gaze didn’t leave his son. “Madrid makes the most sense,” he said quietly. “You’ll have us. Your mother. Ana. Familiar space.” His thumb rubbed faintly against the edge of his folded arm, the gesture small but telling. “You shouldn’t be alone.”

Carlos let the thought settle. Madrid — safe, full of warmth, full of hands ready to catch him. And yet the image that rose unbidden was Monaco: the light through the balcony doors, the sound of the sea in the distance, the quiet corners of his own rooms. He cleared his throat. “I was thinking…” He hesitated, the words dragging. “Monaco.”

There was a pause. Reyes’ fingers stilled over his. Ana blinked, her mouth opening, then closing again. His father’s face softened with surprise before it shifted into something quieter — not anger, not rejection, but a careful, thoughtful kind of worry.

“Monaco,” Reyes repeated softly, searching his eyes. “Carlos…”

“There’s Gigi,” he added quickly, as if the name could hold up the thought. “Physio. He knows my body, my training. And—” He drew a breath, slow, careful. “It feels… familiar.”

The silence held, warm but weighted. His father’s eyes lingered on him, steady, unreadable, as if searching for something he hadn’t yet said aloud.

Dr. Bianchi broke it gently. “You’ll need people around you, wherever you are.” She glanced at Reyes, at Ana, then back to Carlos. “Think about who that might be.”

The room fell quiet after she left, the sound of her footsteps fading down the corridor. For a while, no one spoke. Carlos lay still, feeling the weight of the words settle, the edges of the decision pressing close around him. His father shifted near the window, Reyes’ thumb brushed softly against his wrist, and Ana glanced down at her phone as though she could hide her worry there.

It was only later that the hush broke — a firmer knock this time, the handle turning before Reyes could rise. The door opened to a rush of voices and the shuffle of trainers against the floor.

“Hostia, look at you,” Teto grinned as he came in first, lugging a bag that looked far too big for an afternoon visit. Guzmán followed with a lopsided smile, and Caco trailed behind, already reaching to clap Carlos lightly on the leg through the blanket.

And then Lando — not saying anything, just shifting his weight slightly, eyes on Carlos with a softness that made something twist deep inside.

The air warmed with their noise, easy and familiar, a tide spilling into the sterile hush of the ward. Reyes smiled faintly, shifting to make space, while Ana rolled her eyes at Caco’s too-loud laugh but didn’t move from her spot.

“You look better,” Guzmán said, dropping into the chair nearest the bed. “Not perfect, but mejor, eh?”

Carlos huffed softly, ribs tugging with the faintest ache. “Gracias.”

They settled around him, voices overlapping, teasing, filling the room with their careless warmth. It took only a few minutes before the talk drifted — Teto asking how long he’d be stuck here, Caco leaning over the side of the bed to swipe a biscuit from the bag Reyes had left.

Reyes glanced at Carlos, her brows lifting slightly, the unspoken question clear. He cleared his throat, drawing in a breath. “Doctor says I can go tomorrow,” he said carefully, voice low but steady.

The chatter stilled. Teto’s eyebrows shot up. Guzmán straightened in his chair. Caco’s grin widened instantly. “Mañana? Joder, that’s brilliant!”

Lando’s eyes lit, quick and sharp, a smile flickering before it softened into something quieter. “That’s… that’s really good.”

Reyes’ hand smoothed over Carlos’ blanket, her smile warm but a little fragile. “He’ll need looking after,” she said gently, her eyes flicking to the group. “It’s not just going home. He can’t be alone.”

Carlos shifted faintly against the pillows, the words dragging as he said, “I was thinking maybe… Teto and Guzmán could be around.”

“Claro que sí,” Teto said immediately, clapping Guzmán on the shoulder. “No problem.”

“Obvio,” Guzmán added with a grin.

There was a pause, then Lando’s voice, quiet but certain. “I can help too.”

The words landed softly, but firm enough to hold. Carlos blinked, surprise flickering across his face. “But you’ve got Baku,” he said, the protest instinctive.

“I’ll go,” Lando said, leaning forward a little, his hands braced on his knees. “But not for a week. Till then, I can be around. And after — they can cover when I’m away.” His eyes flicked briefly toward Teto and Guzmán, then back to Carlos. “We can make it work.”

Guzmán glanced at Teto, then nodded, his voice touched with his usual warmth. “Tiene razón. Makes sense.”

“Sí,” Teto agreed quickly. “It is best.”

Carlos’ brows drew together, the faintest crease forming. He looked between them — Lando’s steady gaze, Teto’s easy grin, Guzmán’s sure nod — then at Reyes, whose eyes shone faintly with relief. His father’s expression was quieter, thoughtful, a touch of reserve at the edges.

Caco broke the moment, his grin tilting as he looked at Carlos Sr. “It’s the best option, no? Between all of them, he’ll have everything he needs.”

For a beat, his father didn’t speak. Then he gave a slow nod, his voice quiet, measured. “If it helps you recover,” he said. His gaze held steady, and when it slipped briefly toward Lando, Carlos caught it — the warmth in it, unmistakeable, and just beneath, the faintest flicker of hesitation. Not harsh, not cold, only the careful edge of a man still finding his footing.

*~*~*~*~*

The discharge papers had been signed that morning, the doctor satisfied that Carlos was steady enough to travel. The final instructions had been straightforward — no flights yet, too much risk of pressure changes and fatigue, and someone had to stay with him around the clock until he was fully independent. Three or four weeks, at least. His mother had nodded firmly at that, his father pressing his mouth into a line Carlos knew meant agreement, even if it was reluctant.

Now, just past midday, the corridor smelled faintly of disinfectant and overbrewed coffee as they gathered near the entrance. The lift had rattled them down to the ground floor, and Carlos had walked the few steps slowly, leaning on the crutch the physio had insisted he use, ribs still pulling if he moved too fast.

Reyes smoothed her hand over his hair for the fifth time since they’d left the ward. “Llama en cuanto llegues, mi amor,” she said softly, her eyes wet but steady. “And if you need anything, anything at all—”

“I will,” Carlos promised, though his throat felt too tight around the words. He bent awkwardly to let her kiss his cheek, her hand brushing his jaw with the tenderness of someone reluctant to let go.

Ana hugged him quickly, her arms warm and fierce, then stepped back with a sharp little look that promised she’d be checking in more than he probably wanted. Blanca was already talking about coming to Monaco at the weekend, her tone brisk enough to disguise how much her voice wavered at the edges.

His father lingered until last. Carlos felt the weight of his presence even before he stepped forward — tall, solid, his hand warm and steady when it came to rest on Carlos’ shoulder.

“Cuídate, hijo mío,” he said quietly, thumb brushing once along the seam of Carlos’ jacket. His eyes softened, but not without shadows. “Listen to what they tell you. Don’t be stubborn.”

Carlos gave a faint, crooked smile. “I’ll try.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his father’s gaze flick — just briefly — to where Lando stood a little apart, hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets. The softness in his expression faltered, replaced by something Carlos couldn’t name. Not cold, not unfriendly, but careful. Apprehensive.

It unsettled Carlos more than he wanted to admit.

Lando noticed, if only faintly. He stepped closer, shoulder brushing Carlos’ arm in a quiet gesture of support, offering a quick smile toward Reyes before ducking his head. Reyes returned it warmly, her fingers brushing Carlos’ hair once more, but his father only gave Lando the briefest of nods — polite, clipped, his eyes steady but unreadable.

Carlos tried not to dwell on it as Teto and Guzmán breezed in, voices bright and easy. Teto grabbed the overnight bag from Ana before she could argue, tossing Carlos a grin. “Come on, campeón. Let’s get you home before your madre changes her mind and keeps you another week.”

Guzmán slipped easily to Carlos’ other side, steadying him without asking, his tone light. “Car’s out front. Lando’s already sorted the pillows for you.”

The casual mention hit oddly. Lando. Not a nurse, not a sibling, not someone who owed Carlos anything — and yet it was said like the most natural thing in the world, like of course Lando would think of the pillows before anyone else.

By the time they reached the car, Carlos’ ribs ached from the short walk, his leg heavy from the steady drag of the crutch. Guzmán opened the back door without waiting, his hand firm at Carlos’ elbow. Teto held the other door, nodding toward the seat.

“Sit in the back with Lando,” Teto said easily, as if there were never a question. “More space.”

Lando was already sliding in, shifting the cushions into place. He looked up as Carlos settled beside him, eyes quick and careful, mouth pulling into a small, encouraging smile. Without a word, he adjusted the belt so Carlos didn’t have to reach awkwardly, his fingers brushing briefly over Carlos’ hand as he clicked it in.

The touch was light, ordinary. Too ordinary.

From the front, Guzmán glanced back with a grin. “All good?”

“Sí,” Carlos murmured, his voice low, the word rough in his throat.

Teto started the engine, the hum filling the quiet. As they pulled away, Reyes and his father stood on the pavement, waving. Reyes’ hand fluttered high and bright, her smile soft and trembling. His father’s wave was steadier, his mouth set firm, his eyes lingering not on Carlos, but on the faint curve of Lando’s shoulder as he leaned slightly closer in the seat. Carlos looked away quickly, the ache under his ribs pulling sharper. He didn’t understand the look, not fully. But he felt it.

The motorway stretched out endless and grey, the hum of the tyres steady beneath them. Afternoon sun slanted low, washing the fields gold, and every so often a cluster of hills rolled up against the horizon before dipping back out of sight.

They’d been on the road barely half an hour when Teto muttered something about Italian drivers and Guzmán started laughing, shaking his head.

“You’re no better, hombre,” Guzmán said. “Last time, you nearly missed the toll.”

“I made it,” Teto argued, grinning into the rear-view. “And nobody died.”

“Yet,” Carlos murmured, ribs pulling faintly as he shifted.

Lando’s laugh came quick and light from beside him, soft enough that it felt like it was meant only for Carlos. “Told you he wouldn’t last until the first toll,” he said, shaking his head.

Teto groaned theatrically, Guzmán joined in with a snort, and for a while the car filled with their voices, bright and easy. Carlos sat back, letting it roll over him. He didn’t join much — his ribs protested with every laugh — but the sound was warm all the same.

Later, the road levelled out, the car slipping into a quieter rhythm. Guzmán fiddled with the radio until a soft Spanish ballad played, the kind you’d hear in the background at a café. Teto hummed under his breath, fingers tapping against the wheel.

Lando bent forward to rummage in the bag at his feet, pulling out a packet of biscuits. “Hungry?” he asked, offering them over with an easy glance.

Carlos reached, their fingers brushing just briefly. The touch lingered longer in his chest than it had any right to. Guzmán caught it, grinning. “See? He’s got you sorted already.”

Lando rolled his eyes, leaning back. “I’m not his nurse.”

“You could have fooled me,” Teto said, deadpan, though his smile softened it.

They laughed again, easy, natural. Carlos stayed quiet, chewing slowly, but he caught the way Teto and Guzmán spoke to Lando — not as a guest, not as someone tagging along, but as though this was the most natural arrangement in the world.

As the miles went on, conversation ebbed and flowed. They teased Lando about his snacking habits, argued lightly over football, fell into patches of silence where only the hum of the road filled the space. Once, Carlos let his head tip back against the seat and drifted, half-asleep, until the soft bump of Lando’s shoulder against his pulled him back. Lando didn’t move away, just let the contact rest there, steady and unthinking.

Outside, the light shifted toward evening, shadows stretching long over the road. Carlos watched it in fragments, the landscape blurring past, the warmth of Lando beside him, the low comfort of familiar voices up front.

And beneath it all, the memory of his father’s glance that morning lingered sharp at the edges — not cold, but weighted, as if there was something he wasn’t saying. Carlos couldn’t quite shake it.

*~*~*~*~*

The road blurred past in steady ribbons of grey, the hum of the tyres folding into the background until it felt almost like a lullaby. Carlos drifted in and out, head tipping faintly against the cool glass, ribs tugging each time the car shifted lanes. He caught pieces of voices when he surfaced — Teto laughing at his own joke up front, Guzmán humming low along with the radio, Lando saying something soft that Carlos didn’t catch but felt more than heard, close at his shoulder.

The air smelled faintly of crisps and the lemon wipes Teto had insisted on using to clean the dashboard at the petrol station. Carlos let it hold around him, heavy and warm, the steady vibration of the car working under his bones.

When he blinked fully awake again, the sun was low, casting long amber light across the inside of the car. Lando was beside him, elbow resting lightly on the middle seat, phone turning idly in his hand. He glanced up when Carlos shifted, eyes catching his, and gave a small smile that curved tired but warm.

“You were out for a while,” Lando murmured.

Carlos made a small sound in reply, something between a hum and a protest. His mouth was dry. “Not drooling,” he muttered, earning a soft laugh that brushed warm against his chest.

At some point after Genoa, Guzmán had taken over driving. Carlos realised it when the car pulled to a slower roll and Guzmán grumbled at a Fiat cutting across the lane without signalling. Teto leaned back in the passenger seat, tossing a half-empty bottle of water between his hands, still muttering about the map and how he’d done the hard bit through the tunnels.

Carlos shifted against the seat, ribs protesting, and let the quiet stretch between them. By the time Guzmán guided them into the underground car park in Monaco, Carlos’ body felt stiff with the hours, every step waiting to be measured. He unclipped his seatbelt carefully, sucking in a breath against the pull under his ribs.

The lift ride was short, Teto juggling bags, Guzmán muttering about the parking space, Lando’s hand brushing steady at Carlos’ elbow as they stepped out into the corridor.

The flat door clicked open, and the air that met Carlos was cool and familiar — but not just familiar to him. There was the faint scent of detergent, citrus polish, and underneath, something warmer. He stepped in slowly, his gaze snagging at once on a grey hoodie draped over the sofa. Not his. He knew it, though. Knew who it belonged to. Trainers sat by the door, smaller than his, scuffed at the toes, lined up neatly against the wall. On the table, a half-finished jigsaw sprawled across the wood, a mug with a cartoon fox left nearby.

Before Carlos could speak, Lando brushed past him easily, dropping his bag against the wall without hesitation and heading for the kitchen. He moved like he’d done it a hundred times.

“Tea?” he asked over his shoulder, already reaching for the mugs in the cupboard. His voice was casual, like the answer didn’t matter.

Carlos blinked, ribs tugging as he shifted his weight. “You don’t drink tea.”

Lando glanced back, mouth twitching. “I don’t. But you do.” He reached straight into the fridge, hand closing on the milk without even looking.

Teto’s voice carried from the hall as he kicked off his trainers. “Call it now — Guzmán and I are taking the good sofa if you start snoring.”

“Good sofa?” Guzmán scoffed, setting the bags down with a thump. “We’re flipping coins for the bed, hermano.”

Their bickering rolled easy under the moment, but Carlos barely heard it. His gaze lingered on the scuffed trainers by the door, on the hoodie, on the way Lando’s hand brushed the cupboard closed like he had done it many mornings.

He leaned against the counter, the cool edge firm under his palm. His throat worked before the words came, careful and even. “You spend a lot of time here?”

Lando looked up, eyes meeting his. For a beat, something unreadable flickered there — then a small shrug, almost casual. “Guess I do.”

Carlos felt his chest ache, soft and heavy under his ribs. He nodded once, slow, his eyes dipping before finding Lando’s again. He stayed where he was for a moment, hand braced against the counter, watching the easy way Lando moved through the kitchen. The familiarity of it landed hard, not comforting — unsettling in a way he couldn’t name. Like he’d walked into a life that should have been his, only he didn’t remember how he’d built it.

Teto’s voice carried from the sitting room, teasing Guzmán about claiming the sofa, their laughter warm and easy. It should have pulled Carlos with it, eased the tightness in his chest. Instead, he pushed himself slowly upright and drifted down the hall.

The first door stood half-open. He glanced in without meaning to. The spare room — neat bed, boxes stacked near the wall, shelves lined with cycling books. Something else too, half-hidden in the corner, but his eyes slid past it before the shape settled in his mind. Nothing important, he told himself, moving on.

The next door — his bedroom. He stepped inside, ribs tugging faintly as he drew a breath. The bed was made, but not the way he remembered. Sheets newer, softer to the touch when his fingers brushed the edge. On the bedside table, two glasses sat close together, one still faintly clouded at the bottom. A phone charger coiled beside them — not his.

He opened the wardrobe carefully. His shirts, pressed, lined neat as ever. But in between, a few T‑shirts that weren’t his. Colours he’d never wear, logos from brands he didn’t buy. Trainers on the floor, lighter, with bright blue soles.

The door shut too quickly, a pull sharp under his ribs.

In the bathroom, the mirror showed his face pale, drawn, eyes too sharp. His razor was there by the sink — but beside it, a toothbrush that wasn’t his, standing in the same cup as his own. A bottle of face wash, a scent he didn’t recognise. He braced both hands on the porcelain, his throat working hard, breath rough against the close air.

He left the bathroom too quickly, back into the hall. But when he passed the spare room again, something pulled him back. He stepped inside this time, slower. The neat bed, the stacked boxes — and there, against the far wall, a computer desk. Dual monitors. A gaming chair pushed slightly askew. A headset hanging from the corner. The faint glow of a console light, left in standby.

He stood still, chest tightening, ribs tugging shallow as the pieces clicked into place.

This wasn’t his. It had never been his.

Lando lived here.

The sound of laughter carried faintly from the sitting room — Lando’s voice threaded through it, warm and familiar, too close.

Carlos’ throat tightened, the weight of it pressing down hard. He didn’t move, didn’t breathe for a moment, only stared at the glow of the console like it had confirmed something he hadn’t wanted to see.

And suddenly, the flat didn’t feel like his at all.

*~*~*~*~*

Carlos stayed in the doorway, the wood of the frame cool against his palm, as if he needed the anchor. The room itself looked harmless at first glance — a spare bedroom, neat enough. But his eyes couldn’t seem to leave the desk. The headset waiting neatly on its hook. The controller lying exactly where a hand might have left it after hours of play. The faint indent of the chair’s cushion, proof it hadn’t sat empty for long.

This wasn’t someone passing through. It was someone living here.

He went still, gaze following the tidy arrangement of cables along the skirting board, the laptop angled just so, the faint stack of game cases on the shelf above. Not his. None of it his. He almost turned away. Almost pretended he hadn’t seen. But the thought pressed sharper: how could he? How could he ignore something that so clearly belonged to Lando?

A sound cut through the quiet — footsteps in the hall. Light, hesitant. He knew them before he even looked.

“Carlos?”

The voice came soft, uncertain, and when he turned, Lando was already there. Standing just inside the corridor, hair slightly flattened, T‑shirt loose, eyes skimming the room before darting quickly back down. He didn’t come closer. His hands hovered awkwardly near his pockets, like he didn’t know where to put them.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The silence was too thick, too sharp at the edges.

“You…” Lando started, then stopped, jaw shifting. He tried again, voice low. “You know.”

Carlos stayed silent, the weight of it thick in his chest. He could hear the faint hum of the fridge down the hall, the distant murmur of traffic through the balcony doors, the quiet hitch of Lando’s breathing.

Lando shifted again, one hand finally shoving deep into his pocket as if to stop it fidgeting. His eyes stayed down, fixed somewhere near the floor. “I should’ve… told you,” he said softly, the words catching on themselves. “Before now. I just—” He broke off, shoulders tightening. “Didn’t know how.”

Carlos’ mouth felt dry. He wanted to ask a hundred things, wanted to demand why no one had said anything, why it had been left for him to stumble across like this. But the words stuck. His ribs ached with the effort of breathing evenly, and still nothing came out.

The silence stretched, heavy and uneasy.

At last, Lando risked a glance up, eyes meeting his for the briefest second. Something flickered there — not guilt exactly, but something close. Something softer. Then he looked away again, jaw tight, as though bracing himself for whatever Carlos would say next.

Carlos swallowed, the sound loud in his own ears. The desk loomed in the corner of his vision, the neat, lived-in presence of it pressing hard against the edges of his mind. He didn’t know what to say. He only knew that the ground under him felt less steady than it had a minute ago.

Carlos’ throat worked before the words finally came, low and unsteady. “So… how long?” His eyes flicked briefly toward the desk again. “How long’s it been like this?”

Lando shifted, his hand tightening in his pocket. “Since… January.” His voice dipped, uncertain. “That’s when—when we first… when it started. And then it just—” He hesitated, jaw tight. “By the end of May, I was here more than at mine. Pretty much full‑time.”

Carlos’ breath caught faintly. January. That was after the blank in his head — after the wall he couldn’t climb. He gripped the doorframe a little harder, ribs pulling sharp with the effort. “So I’ve just…” He stopped, his throat tight, forcing the words out quieter. “I’ve lost all of it.”

Lando’s eyes flicked up quickly, then down again. His shoulders shifted, tense under the cotton of his T‑shirt. “Yeah.” He spoke gently, careful. “But you don’t have to figure it all out right now.”

Carlos swallowed, mouth dry. His gaze slid back to the desk — the controller, the chair still faintly indented, proof of evenings he couldn’t remember. “I don’t even know what to ask.”

“You don’t have to,” Lando said softly, though his voice wavered on the edge. He hesitated, shifting his weight. “Look, um…” His hand finally came out of his pocket, rubbing the back of his neck. “Do you want a glass of wine? Might make it… I don’t know. Easier.” He huffed a faint, nervous sound, as if he’d already guessed the answer.

Carlos frowned slightly, head tilting. “Can I? With—” He gestured faintly toward his ribs, his shoulder, the faint tug of the IV scar at his arm. “After the hospital?”

Lando blinked, then nodded quickly. “One glass won’t hurt. I checked.” His mouth pulled in a small, self‑conscious smile, almost apologetic. “Figured you’d ask.”

Carlos held his gaze for a long moment, searching, the silence stretching taut between them. Then he exhaled slowly, ribs aching with the effort, and gave the faintest of nods.

Lando’s mouth twitched, small and unsteady. “Come on, then,” he murmured. He stepped back from the doorway, waiting just enough for Carlos to follow.

The lounge was softly lit, the blinds half drawn against the evening. Guzmán was sprawled on the end of the sofa, scrolling absently through his phone, while Teto sat cross‑legged on the rug, riffling through a deck of cards he clearly hadn’t been playing with. At the sight of Carlos in the doorway, both looked up.

It was the way their faces shifted that told him more than anything — Guzmán sliding his phone aside too quickly, Teto’s mouth pressing into something that wasn’t quite a smile. They knew.

“Todo bien?” Teto asked carefully, eyes flicking between Carlos and Lando.

“Yeah,” Carlos said, his voice rougher than he meant. He eased down onto the armchair Lando nudged out for him, ribs flaring sharp with the movement.

Lando crossed quietly to the little sideboard, uncorked a bottle that had already been opened, and poured into two glasses. His hand was steady, but Carlos noticed the faint tremor in the tilt of the bottle, the way he set it down with deliberate care. He handed one glass across, their fingers brushing briefly, then sat on the sofa edge near Guzmán.

Carlos’ eyes lingered on the rim of the glass before flicking back up. “So it’s not just… me imagining things,” he said quietly, throat dry. “All of that — in there — it’s yours, isn’t it?”

Lando’s jaw worked once, then he gave a small nod. “Yeah,” he said softly. “It’s mine.”

From the rug, Teto shifted forward slightly, the cards forgotten in his hands. “We can go, if you want,” he offered, glancing between them. “Give you both space.”

“Sí,” Guzmán added gently, straightening from his sprawl. “Just say the word.”

Carlos shook his head before either could move. “No. Stay.” His voice came rougher than he meant, and he glanced at Lando again, searching his face. “Unless you’d rather not.”

Lando gave the faintest shake of his head. “I don’t mind,” he murmured. His fingers picked at a loose thread on his T‑shirt, eyes lowering for a second before coming back up. “Might even help, actually.”

Carlos set the glass carefully on the table, his fingers lingering at the stem. “Then tell me,” he said quietly. “I need to understand.”

The silence stretched a beat before he asked, “So… when?” His gaze stayed steady, though his chest felt tight. “When did this… start?”

Lando’s eyes flicked up, quick, searching. He let out a faint breath, almost a laugh but not quite. “After Abu Dhabi,” he said softly. “That night we all went out. You, me, Teto, Guz, some of the others. Celebrating the championship.”

Carlos frowned faintly, trying to pull the scraps of memory into focus. “We went out after the race?”

“Sí,” Teto cut in gently, leaning forward on the rug. “Big night. All for him. You danced more than I’ve seen in ten years.” His grin flickered, soft around the edges.

“And sang,” Guzmán added with a smirk, nudging Teto with his foot. “Terribly. You wouldn’t let the mic go.”

Carlos gave a faint huff, almost a laugh despite the ache in his ribs. “Sounds like me,” he murmured. His eyes shifted back to Lando. “So… something happened then?”

“Not exactly,” Lando said, shifting a bit in his seat. His eyes darted down before meeting Carlos’ again. “It wasn’t like… some big thing that night. Just— I don’t know. You kept looking at me. Or maybe I was the one looking too much.” He gave a quick, nervous half‑laugh. “Either way, it felt different.”

Carlos frowned slightly, his brow tightening. “Different how?”

“Just… not like normal. Not just mates.” Lando rubbed the back of his neck, his words stumbling quick, unpolished. “Next day, I came over. We were still buzzing from it all, and I—” He broke off, huffed out a breath. “I kissed you. Didn’t plan it. It just… happened.”

Carlos’ pulse picked up, sharp against his ribs. “And I…?”

“You kissed me back,” Lando said quietly, almost like he wasn’t sure Carlos would believe it. His eyes flicked away, then back again.

Carlos blinked, his chest tightening. The words felt unreal, like they belonged to someone else’s story. “And then we were… together?”

“Not right away,” Lando said quickly, shaking his head. “We weren’t sure what to do with it. But after New Year’s, back in Monaco…” His shoulders lifted slightly. “That’s when it started. Properly.”

The room felt too still. Carlos swallowed, his throat thick. “And it worked? After that?”

“It was… weird,” Lando admitted, a faint, self‑conscious smile tugging at his mouth. “At first. For you especially. But then… yeah. It worked. Better than either of us expected.”

Carlos sat back slowly, ribs tugging with the movement, his mind spinning. He glanced between them — Lando tense but steady, Teto watching with quiet patience, Guzmán leaning forward now, eyes steady.

“Who knows?” Carlos asked after a moment, his voice low. “About us.”

“Not many,” Lando said softly. “Your sisters. Caco. Charles, Max, a few people at McLaren and Williams. My lot. We kept it private.”

Carlos nodded faintly, absorbing it. The next question pressed sharper. “And… my parents?”

Lando shifted, his mouth tightening slightly. “Your sisters were amazing. Caco too. Your mum took a bit of time, but she came round. Your dad…” He hesitated. “He loves you. And he loves me. But it hasn’t been easy for him. For either of you.”

Carlos’ jaw tightened, his ribs aching with the breath he drew in. “Hard how?”

There was a pause before Lando answered, voice quiet, careful. “He hasn’t been comfortable with us. Not really. It’s been a strain. You still talk. You still see each other. But it’s… complicated.”

Carlos stared at the glass on the table, his throat closing faintly. He felt Teto’s eyes on him, steady, and Guzmán shifting closer.

“You fought for it, hermano,” Teto said gently, leaning in. “For him. You wanted this.”

Carlos’ chest tightened, his fingers curling slightly into the blanket. He didn’t know what to do with the warmth in Teto’s voice, or the quiet certainty in Guzmán’s nod that followed. He looked at Lando again, the weight of his gaze steady, almost pleading.

“Why didn’t anyone tell me?” His voice cracked sharper than he meant.

Lando swallowed, hands linking loosely. “Because I didn’t know how. Thought maybe if you saw it — the flat, the life we had here — it’d be easier than me just… saying it.”

Carlos sat with it, the air heavy in his chest. The questions still pressed sharp at the edges, but for the first time since waking, he felt like he wasn’t completely in the dark anymore — even if what he’d found unsettled him to his bones.

*~*~*~*~*

That first night passed in fragments. He remembered the sound of Guzmán laughing softly at something on his phone, the shuffle of Teto pulling out blankets for the spare bed, and the faint clink of Lando rinsing mugs in the kitchen. Carlos drifted through it, half awake, ribs tugging each time he shifted. When he surfaced properly, the flat was quiet except for the low hum of the fridge and the faint rhythm of Lando brushing his teeth down the hall.

The bed felt unfamiliar. Too neat, too carefully made. He lay still, staring at the ceiling, the faint spill of light from the streetlamp painting a pale stripe across the wall. The air smelled faintly of laundry powder and something warmer — Lando’s shampoo, maybe. He wasn’t sure. He shut his eyes, but the questions pressed sharp anyway.

By morning, his body ached from the drive. Getting upright took longer than it should, every movement measured. Teto was already at the hob, muttering in Spanish about the eggs being overcooked, while Guzmán read out headlines from his phone in a tone that made it clear he wasn’t taking them seriously.

Lando sat at the table, half turned toward the kitchen, hair flattened at the back, a glass of juice cupped in his hands. He looked up when Carlos shuffled in, the smile that tugged across his face easy, warm — too natural.

“Morning,” Lando said softly. “Want some?” He nudged a mug closer, steam curling faintly from it.

Carlos glanced at it. “Coffee?”

“Yeah.” Lando’s mouth twitched faintly. “Made it how you like.”

He shouldn’t have been surprised. But the way Lando said it, so offhand and sure, struck harder than it should have. He sat carefully, the chair solid beneath him, and accepted the mug. Their fingers brushed for a moment.

The table was already cluttered — toast, fruit, the eggs Teto had sworn at, Guzmán’s phone charging by the corner. It looked lived in. Not just by him.

Carlos sipped, the warmth sliding down slow. “Did you sleep?” he asked after a moment.

“Yeah,” Lando said, though the faint shadows under his eyes told another story. “You?”

Carlos hesitated. “Enough.”

The answer didn’t satisfy either of them, but neither pushed. Guzmán filled the silence with a story about the nightmare parking at the garage last night, Teto chiming in to say he’d predicted it. Their voices rolled easy, warm, a comfort he didn’t quite feel part of.

As the morning stretched, Carlos let them fuss — Teto insisting he rest on the sofa, Guzmán pulling a blanket over him despite the warmth, Lando setting a glass of water within reach without a word. They were careful without making it obvious, each small gesture threaded into the rhythm of the flat. It should have been comforting. But each kindness only sharpened the sense that he was walking through a life that remembered him better than he remembered it.

He shifted faintly, ribs tugging, and caught Lando watching him from the armchair opposite. Not staring — not quite. Just steady, quiet, as if waiting for something Carlos didn’t yet have the words to give.

Carlos muttered something low in Spanish that had Teto laughing, the sound bright and sharp, while Guzmán shook his head like he’d heard it all before. The room eased into low chatter, the kind that rose and fell around him without asking for much in return, and for the first time that day, Carlos let himself sink a little further into the cushions, the weight of the past hours settling softer around his ribs.

By the time evening drew in, the flat had shifted into a quieter rhythm. Guzmán pulled together a simple dinner, Teto hovering with unnecessary commentary while Lando made sure Carlos barely lifted a hand. They ate crowded round the table, conversation looping between stories Carlos half remembered and others he didn’t at all. Later, with the spare rooms claimed and Lando stretched out on the sofa, Carlos lay staring at the ceiling of his own bedroom, the faint spill of light from the corridor a reminder that he wasn’t alone — though it felt, in some ways, lonelier than if he had been.

Morning came slow. The ache in his ribs woke him before the sun had fully climbed, his body stiff from too little sleep. He sat up carefully, the sheets rustling faintly, and heard the low clatter of mugs from the kitchen.

When he padded through, Guzmán was perched on the counter, scrolling through his phone, while Teto muttered darkly at the hob about how eggs never cooked evenly in this pan. Lando was at the sink, rinsing out a glass, shoulders sloping easy under a plain white T-shirt. He glanced over as Carlos came in, and the small lift of his mouth was quick, natural — too natural.

“Hey,” Lando said quietly, reaching for a towel to dry his hands. “Sleep alright?”

Carlos hesitated before answering. “Enough.” His voice came rougher than he meant.

He eased himself down onto the chair Lando had already pulled out, ribs protesting. The surface of the table was scattered with toast, fruit, a paper bag of pastries someone must have picked up early. It looked lived in — not just for a day, but like this was their usual.

Lando set a glass of water in front of him without asking. Their fingers brushed, a touch so quick it might have been an accident, except Carlos felt the warmth linger against his skin long after.

Guzmán glanced up from his phone. “Plan for today’s easy,” he said lightly. “You rest. We’ll handle the rest.”

“Already called Gigi,” Teto added, turning from the hob. “He’s coming after lunch to start with the physio.”

Carlos nodded faintly, trying to ignore the way Lando was watching him from across the table — not openly, not obvious, but steady enough that he felt it with every swallow of water.

The afternoon eased in slowly, the brightness on the balcony softening into the kind of light that stretched long and golden across the floorboards. Lunch plates still sat stacked by the sink, Teto and Guzmán having finally made good on their talk of “a quick siesta” and disappeared into the spare rooms. The flat was quiet for the first time since Carlos had arrived, the air carrying only the faint hum of the fridge and the distant stir of traffic below.

Carlos shifted carefully against the sofa cushions, ribs tugging, a glass of water cool in his hand. Lando lingered nearby, perched sideways in the armchair, one leg bent, his phone lying forgotten on the armrest.

“Gigi seemed… pleased enough,” Carlos said after a beat, the words almost tentative. “Didn’t call me hopeless, so that’s something.”

A smile tugged faintly at Lando’s mouth. “That’s Gigi for you. If he didn’t think you could manage, he wouldn’t bother turning up again tomorrow.” He tapped his fingers absently against his knee. “He’ll have you swearing at him by the end of the week.”

Carlos huffed, the sound soft, and shifted a little, ribs protesting. “How long, you think, before I stop feeling like an old man every time I stand up?”

Lando tilted his head, eyes tracing him with a quick flick before darting down again. “Couple months for the ribs, maybe more for the shoulder. You’ll get there. You always do.” He gave a small shrug, too casual. “You’ll be ready.”

The certainty in his voice should have been reassuring. But Carlos caught the way Lando’s thumb worried at the seam of his joggers, the way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“And driving?” Carlos asked quietly.

That earned a pause. Lando leaned back a little, gaze flicking toward the balcony before returning. “You’ll make testing. Six months is plenty. Williams’ll keep the seat warm for you.”

Carlos’ brow furrowed faintly. “They already have someone lined up?”

Lando hesitated. “Victor. Just for now.” He said it lightly, but Carlos caught the edge underneath, quick and sharp. “They know you’re their guy. It’s not a question.”

Carlos hummed low, not fully convinced, his gaze dropping to the faint condensation on his glass. “Strange season to be out of it.”

Lando let out a small laugh, quick, though it didn’t quite hide the heaviness in his eyes. “Tell me about it. Feels like every point’s a knife fight. George and Kimi keep nicking wins, but we’re not letting them run away with it.” He paused, lips twitching faintly. “Oscar’s been… annoyingly good.”

That pulled the faintest curve from Carlos, ribs tugging as he shifted. “And you?”

“Me?” Lando gave a half‑smile that almost held, then slipped. “Still standing.” His fingers drummed once against the armrest before stilling. “Car’s quick. I’m quick. That’s what matters.”

But Carlos could see it — the guarded way Lando held himself, like if he let the words run too far they’d spill into something he couldn’t take back. His eyes stayed steady, but the brightness behind them was dimmer, held on a tight rein.

Carlos let the quiet sit between them, the kind that should have felt easy but didn’t. He watched the faint crease settle between Lando’s brows, the way his hand lingered near his glass without lifting it. And for the first time since leaving the hospital, Carlos felt the weight of what he didn’t remember pressing closer — not just the lost months, but the space between them now, lined with things Lando wasn’t saying.

*~*~*~*~*

By the next morning, the rhythm of the flat had shifted again. Guzmán was already rattling through the cupboards for cereal, muttering darkly about how Teto had eaten the last of the good biscuits, while Teto protested that they’d been community property. Their bickering rolled easy, familiar, the kind of background noise that filled the corners without asking anything of him.

Lando was moving through the space differently. Quicker, more deliberate. He stood at the fridge, eyes scanning the calendar pinned there, fingertip brushing over the neat squares of ink. He checked the notes twice, lips pressing together before he smoothed the corner of the page, as though it hadn’t been flat enough. The hum of his voice carried across the table to Carlos, who sat nursing his coffee, steam curling faintly against his face.

“Gigi’s coming this morning at ten,” Lando said, glancing up briefly before his eyes darted back to the calendar. “And the check-up is Thursday afternoon. I’ve put it all in your phone too.” He tugged at the sleeve of his jacket, smoothing it down like it needed fixing. “Guz, Teto — you’ve got it covered?”

“Sí,” Guzmán answered easily, shoving the cereal box back into the cupboard with a thump. “We’ll make sure he behaves.”

“Which means,” Teto added, grinning, “we’ll actually have to sit on him if he tries to do anything stupid.”

Carlos rolled his eyes faintly. “I’m not planning to.”

“You always say that,” Teto shot back.

Lando’s mouth pulled into a smile, quick and tight at the edges. “He’s got a point.” His gaze lingered on Carlos a fraction too long before flicking away, his fingers tugging at the zip of his bag though it was already closed.

Carlos shifted, ribs tugging as he leaned an elbow carefully on the table. “You’re leaving soon?”

“Flight’s in a couple of hours.” Lando kept his tone light, but his thumb worried at the strap of his bag, circling the leather until the skin around his nail blanched. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back before you’ve had the chance to miss me.”

It was said like a joke, but the brightness in his voice was too sharp, the kind of cheer that worked too hard to cover the weight underneath. Carlos forced a faint smile, though it didn’t reach all the way. “We’ll see.”

Lando hesitated only a moment before crossing the space between them, his arms sliding easily around Carlos. The hug was warm, steady — instinctive. Too instinctive. Carlos stiffened half a second, caught off guard, before the familiarity of it settled against him. His ribs pulled with the contact, but not enough to make him move away.

When Lando stepped back, his smile flashed again, brighter than before, almost convincing. “Behave,” he said softly, already reaching for his bag.

Carlos watched him go, the door clicking shut behind him with a finality that settled deep in the flat. The quiet after was sharp, even with Teto complaining about the state of the milk and Guzmán telling him to stop being dramatic. Their voices carried, warm, trying to fill the space, but it wasn’t the same.

The flat felt different. Thinner somehow. Like the air itself had noticed he was gone.

The flat had quieted after dinner, Teto and Guzmán still half‑arguing over a film in the lounge, their voices rising now and then before dropping back into comfortable bickering. Carlos slipped down the hall, the pull in his ribs sharp with each step, and closed his bedroom door behind him.

He sat carefully on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, and let his breath settle before reaching for his phone on the nightstand. The screen lit up the room faintly, pale against the shadows. His thumb hovered for a long moment over the contact before he finally pressed it.

The ringing seemed louder in the quiet. Once, twice — then Reyes answered, her voice bright with relief. “Hijo! At last. How are you? Did you eat properly?”

Carlos let out a slow breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. “Sí. Guzmán cooked. It was good.” His voice sounded steadier than he felt.

“Not too much salt, I hope.” He could hear the smile in her words, a softness threading through the fussing.

He almost smiled back, though no one could see. “No, Mamá. He was good.”

There was a faint shuffle on the other end, the muffled sound of the receiver changing hands, and then his father’s voice came through. Deeper, steadier. “Carlos.”

He leaned back against the headboard, careful not to jar his ribs. “Buenas noches.”

For a moment, none of them spoke. The pause stretched until Reyes filled it again, gentler now. “Gigi came today?”

“Sí. This afternoon.” Carlos shifted the phone in his hand, thumb pressing lightly at the edge. “Breathing exercises. Stretches. Nothing heavy yet.”

His father hummed low, a note of approval. “That’s good. Don’t rush.”

Carlos nodded faintly, though they couldn’t see it. His chest felt tight, the words dragging against his throat. For a moment he almost left them unsaid, but the weight of it pressed too close.

“I know about Lando,” he said quietly. “About… us.”

The pause that followed wasn’t silence so much as held breath, Reyes’ inhale soft in the background. His fingers curled against the blanket. “He told me some things. Enough that I… I understand, even if I can’t remember.” Carlos swallowed. “It’s… strange. Knowing, but not remembering. Like I’m hearing about someone else. He said you both knew. That it was hard for you.”

Reyes spoke first, warm but careful. “We knew, hijo. We saw how happy he made you. I… I didn’t always know what to say, but I was glad you had him.”

Carlos pressed his head lightly back against the wall, eyes closing. “Papá?”

His father’s breath crackled faintly on the line before he answered. “You should know, Carlos. It was never about him. I like Lando. Always did. He made you laugh. He worked hard. He… he cared for you. But this—” His voice faltered for a moment. “I struggled. I didn’t understand. Seeing you with him that way… it wasn’t easy for me.”

Carlos opened his eyes again, the ceiling blurred above. “He said it strained things. Between us.”

“It did,” his father admitted, quieter now. “And I hated that. I hated feeling apart from you. But I couldn’t seem to help it.”

Reyes’ voice softened, a gentle thread weaving through. “You’ve always followed your heart, hijo. Even when it was hard. I was proud of you for that. I still am.”

Carlos’ throat tightened. “I don’t know how I feel now. About him. About us. I don’t see myself… continuing. Not like before.” He hesitated, voice rougher. “I hope we’ll stay friends. That’s what I want.”

There was a silence, not heavy but full. Then his father let out a long breath. “If that’s what you want, then that’s enough. I’m… relieved. Because what matters is that you can live with it. That it doesn’t pull you apart.”

Reyes murmured softly, “He will still care for you. That won’t vanish overnight.”

Carlos shut his eyes, pressing his palm lightly against his ribs. “I know.”

They lingered after that, Reyes asking about his meals again, his father reminding him not to push the physio. Small, ordinary words laid over something heavier. When he finally ended the call, the room felt quiet in a different way. The hum of the fridge down the hall, the muted laugh track from the lounge — all of it seemed distant, like he’d stepped just slightly aside from the world he was in.

He set the phone down on the nightstand, leaned back slowly, and let the silence settle deep under his ribs.

*~*~*~*~*

The flat was warm with late afternoon light when the door clicked open. Carlos pushed himself upright from the sofa, ribs tugging, just in time to see Lando step through. His travel bag was slung over one shoulder, hair flattened on one side from the plane, a crease running faintly across his cheek like he’d slept against his hoodie.

He looked tired — really tired — but the second his eyes found Carlos, his whole face shifted. The grin came quick, unguarded, pulling deep into his dimples.

“Hey,” Lando said, voice low, soft in a way that made Carlos’ chest ache. He dropped the bag against the wall, not even glancing at it again, and crossed the room like he’d been waiting hours to do it. “You look good.”

Carlos gave a faint huff, almost a laugh. “That’s debatable.”

“Better than when I left.” Lando’s eyes swept over him, quick but lingering. “Colour’s back. You don’t look like you’re about to collapse on me anymore.” He smiled again, smaller this time, but warmer.

Carlos shifted, ribs protesting, suddenly too aware of the blanket pooled in his lap, of how easily Lando had stepped close. “Long flight?”

“Not bad.” Lando brushed the question aside, leaning one hip against the arm of the sofa. His hand hovered for a second like he might touch Carlos’ shoulder, then dropped to his side. “Baku was chaos, though. You’d have loved it.” His mouth twitched like he was fighting a grin. “Oscar nearly sent George into the barriers. George was fuming. I thought he was going to combust.”

Carlos managed a small smile. “Sounds about right.”

Lando laughed softly, the sound filling the space between them. He looked down, rubbing the back of his neck, then back up, eyes catching Carlos’ and holding there a beat too long. It wasn’t obvious, maybe not even intentional — but the warmth in his gaze was unmistakable. It was the look of someone who still loved him. Carlos felt it like pressure under his ribs.

When Teto and Guzmán reappeared, the moment broke. They filled the flat with their easy noise, teasing Lando about his ‘luxury weekend away’ and complaining about the milk again. Carlos let it roll over him, grateful for the cover, but the ache of that look lingered.

It was later, when the others disappeared to pick up food, that the air shifted back to quiet. Lando sank into the chair opposite, stretching out with a tired groan that ended in a laugh. He looked over at Carlos, that same warmth still there, softened by exhaustion.

Carlos stared down at his glass, the words pressing sharp in his throat. He drew in a slow breath, ribs tugging, and forced them out. “Lando… I don’t think I can do this.”

Lando stilled. His hand on the strap froze, then shifted slowly into his lap. “Do what?” His voice stayed steady, but there was a flicker — the smallest edge of caution.

Carlos lifted his gaze, throat tight. “Us. Whatever we had. I… my head, my heart — they’re not there. I don’t think they ever will be.”

For a long beat, Lando didn’t move. His mouth pressed faintly at the corners, his lashes lowering as he looked down at the table. When he lifted his eyes again, the smile was still there — soft, careful, a little cracked. “Alright,” he said quietly. “If that’s how you feel.”

Carlos’ chest pulled, ribs aching with it. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Lando shook his head quickly, a lock of hair falling loose over his forehead. He brushed it back with a twitch of his fingers. “I get it. You can’t feel something just because you’re told you used to.”

Carlos searched his face, the steadiness there. It looked too calm. He could see it though — the faint shadow around Lando’s eyes, the way his hand tightened once on his knee before he stilled it.

“You’re… not angry?”

“No.” Lando let out a small breath, almost a laugh, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Sad, yeah. Of course. We had a good thing.” He hesitated, jaw shifting. “More than good. And I’ll always—” He cut himself off, pressing his lips together briefly. “I’ll always be glad we had it. Even if you don’t remember.”

The words settled heavy in Carlos’ chest. He turned the glass in his hand, watching the light catch on the rim. “It feels… strange. Like I’m being told about my own life by someone else.”

“I get that.” Lando’s voice was quiet, careful. “I can’t even imagine how it feels for you.” He shifted forward, elbows on his knees, close but not quite touching. “I just… I still want to be around. If that’s something you want, too.”

Carlos lifted his head, eyes finding Lando’s. The honesty there — quiet, unsmoothed — settled somewhere deep. “You really think I wouldn’t?”

Lando hesitated, his fingers twitching against the seam of his jeans. “I’ve been scared it might be too much. That seeing me would make everything harder.”

Carlos exhaled slowly, the weight of the moment pressing in. “It is hard,” he admitted. “But I don’t want you gone. You still—” He paused, jaw tightening. “You still matter to me. That hasn’t changed.”

Lando looked down at his hands, voice low. Alright,” he said softly. “We’ll start there.”

Carlos studied him for a long moment, the way the smile on his face didn’t quite hide the ache in his eyes. He thought about the hug earlier, the way it had felt instinctive, too natural, like muscle memory his body carried even if his mind didn’t. It had unsettled him then. Now it just made his chest ache.

“You sure you’ll be okay with that?” he asked finally, his voice low.

Lando gave a small shrug, a shadow of a smile tugging at his mouth. “Doesn’t mean it won’t hurt. But… yeah. I’ll be okay. I’d rather have you in my life like this than not at all.”

Something eased in Lando’s expression then, though not fully. His shoulders dropped a fraction, the smile gentler, even if the ache underneath hadn’t gone. “Then that’s what we’ll be,” he said softly. “Friends.”

The word sat heavy between them, heavier than Carlos expected. He watched as Lando picked at the seam of his sleeve, eyes fixed low, before lifting them with that same steady warmth that Carlos couldn’t decide if it comforted him or unsettled him more.

“Good,” Carlos said quietly, though the word didn’t quite settle right in his chest.

Lando gave the faintest nod, as if agreeing with himself as much as with Carlos. “Good.”

The silence after wasn’t sharp, but it wasn’t easy either. It lingered, tugging at the edges of the air, until the sound of the lift door down the hall broke it, faint voices signalling Teto and Guzmán’s return.

Lando stood slowly, brushing his hand over the back of the chair. His smile — the one he left Carlos with — was bright, natural, almost convincing.

Almost.

*~*~*~*~*

The weeks slipped into a rhythm that almost felt normal. On the surface, nothing had changed. Days filled easily — physio sessions in the mornings with Gigi, who alternated between brisk encouragement and sharp scolding; afternoons lost to long games of FIFA that ended with Teto throwing the controller across the rug in mock despair; the occasional round of golf when Carlos’ ribs and shouler allowed, his swing stiff but improving. Meals stretched into evenings, laughter rising warm between them, Lando’s jokes quick and easy, the sound of his voice filling the flat like it always had.

If anyone had walked in, they would have thought everything was as it had been before. Carlos almost wanted to believe it himself.

But underneath, the cracks showed.

He noticed the little things first. Lando’s laugh came quick, sometimes too quick, the edges just a shade sharper than they should have been. His smile held steady under the others’ teasing, dimples flashing bright as ever, but when he thought no one was watching, it slipped — just a fraction, enough that the tired weight in his eyes showed through. Carlos told himself not to read into it. Not everything was about him. But then there were the glimpses he couldn’t shake.

Late one night, the flat quiet except for the hum of the fridge, Carlos had padded out for water. The kitchen light was already on. He’d stopped just short of the doorway, unseen, when he heard the low murmur of voices. Lando, leaning against the counter, head bowed, Teto close beside him, speaking softly.

“…you can’t keep running on empty,” Teto murmured.

“I’m fine,” Lando said quickly, too quickly, his voice low but tight.

“You’re not.” Teto’s tone sharpened, gentle but unyielding. “You barely sleep, you hardly eat. You think he won’t notice?”

“He doesn’t need to,” Lando cut in, the words brittle. “He doesn’t need to see me… falling apart.”

The words landed like a stone under Carlos’ ribs. He stood there, unseen, the cool glass heavy in his hand, watching the quick, sharp nod Lando gave as if to end the conversation. No smile this time, no dimples — only the tired curve of his shoulders. Carlos turned away before they could notice, retreating to his room with the knot in his chest pulled tight. He lay awake long after, staring at the ceiling, the echo of those words pressing sharp beneath his ribs.

Another time, after physio, he’d caught Guzmán’s hand lingering on Lando’s shoulder, his voice pitched low, serious in a way Guzmán rarely was.

“You don’t have to do it all yourself,” Guzmán was saying, the warmth in his tone steady, insistent.

“I know,” Lando murmured, though his eyes stayed fixed on the floor, jaw tight.

Carlos lingered in the doorway. Lando’s answering smile looked practiced, a flicker of brightness that lasted only as long as he knew Carlos could see it. When Guzmán turned, his expression smoothed too fast, the warmth dialled up a notch as if to cover what Carlos wasn’t meant to witness.

Even Gigi, usually all business, had started dropping by without warning. Once, Carlos came back from a shower to find them both at the balcony, Lando leaning on the rail, Gigi’s voice carrying low and even. The look on Lando’s face — open, unguarded for a rare second — tightened something deep in Carlos’ chest.

“…this pace will wreck you,” Gigi was saying, clipped but not unkind.

“Just a few more weeks,” Lando whispered, eyes down, fingers curled tight around the balcony rail.

“Not like this,” Gigi countered, calm and certain. “You’ll burn out.”

For a moment, Lando’s head dipped, his hand rubbing hard at his eyes. But the instant Carlos stepped closer, he straightened — too fast — grin flashing bright, easy, practiced. The wall slid back into place as if it had never cracked at all.

With Carlos, there were no cracks. Lando kept the brave face perfectly. He teased him about his golf swing, grumbled about FIFA losses, asked about his ribs with casual ease. He was steady, cheerful, exactly as Carlos remembered him. As though nothing had shifted at all.

And yet Carlos knew. He could feel it — in the too-quick laugh, in the moments when Lando thought no one was looking, in the hush of voices that always cut off when he entered the room.

Lando was hurting. Not where Carlos could reach it, not in any way he would admit. But Carlos saw it all the same.And the part he couldn’t name — the part that stayed lodged deep — was that Lando never let him see it directly. Like he was determined to prove that being just good mates again was enough.

*~*~*~*~*

The flat was quiet except for the low hum of the fridge and the occasional clink of glass on wood. Carlos lay still in bed, the door cracked open just enough to hear the faint thread of voices drifting from the sitting room. He told himself to roll over, shut it out, sleep. But the tone pulled at him — not the easy laughter he’d grown used to these weeks, but something heavier, slower.

“…kept showing it,” Lando’s voice, low, frayed at the edges. “Over and over. I couldn’t look away.”

The soft sound of pouring. A pause. Then Teto, his voice rough. “Yeah. I couldn’t either.”

Lando let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Felt like ten years.” A shift — the scrape of his chair against the rug. “People were talking. Engineers, Zak, someone handing me water — I don’t even know. None of it landed. Just… the screen. He wasn’t moving. Nothing.”

Silence.

Then Guzmán, quiet. “I kept waiting for them to cut away.”

Lando nodded, barely audible. “I thought I’d lost him.”

The words landed hard. Carlos could feel the weight of them, the way they didn’t need dressing up. Just truth, plain and sharp.

“I just sat there,” Lando continued. “Watching. Wishing like hell for anything.”

Another pause. Teto exhaled softly through his nose. Said nothing.

Lando went on, voice thinner now, but steady. “That he’d be okay. That he’d open his eyes, twitch his fingers, something. And when I said I’d give anything — the win, the season, everything I’ve worked for — I meant it. None of it mattered. Just… him breathing. That was all I wanted.”

The silence that followed was long. A chair creaked. Someone shifted. But no one filled the quiet.

When Lando spoke again, his voice was rough, like the words dragged on their way out. “And I got what I wanted. He’s alive. He’s here. But…” He stopped, swallowed. “But I lost him anyway.”

Teto cursed, low under his breath, leaning back hard enough to make the sofa creak. Guzmán’s voice came steadier. “You didn’t lose him, tío. He’s still here.”

“Not like before,” Lando said quickly, sharper now. “Not us. Not what we were.” The sound of a glass scraping against wood — frustration, not anger. “Doesn’t matter if he’s next to me every day. It’s gone.”

No one answered at first.

Then Teto, softer, reluctant. “Maybe… maybe it’s not the worst thing you’re flying out tomorrow. Three weeks. COTA, Mexico, Brazil. Bit of space. Might help.”

Lando let out a flat, humourless sound. “Space doesn’t change anything. I’ve tried. Doesn't matter how far I go — it’s still him.”

Guzmán’s voice lowered. “You really think no one else could—”

“No.” Lando cut him off, firm. “Not like him. Never like him.”

There was a shift — chair legs creaking, sleeve brushing fabric — and then his voice again, lower, quieter. “I’ve tried before. Fling here, distraction there… before us. It always felt like pretending. None of them ever came close. He’s—” His breath hitched. “He’s the love of my life. And that doesn’t stop just because he doesn’t remember.”

Carlos lay frozen, every nerve on edge. The words settled heavy under his skin — the kind that didn’t just echo. The kind that stayed.

*~*~*~*~*

The television cast its glow across the sitting room, the sound of engines spilling through the speakers as qualifying played live from Austin. The blinds were half‑drawn against the dark outside, the three of them gathered in the easy sprawl of the evening. Teto had claimed the armchair, Guzmán stretched out along the rug with a cushion under his elbow, while Carlos sat carefully on the sofa, trying not to let the long day weigh too much on him.

Between Q1 and Q2, when the coverage cut to paddock interviews, the room softened into quiet. Guzmán reached for the glass on the table, Teto flicked the corner of his phone screen, and Carlos felt the words pressing too close to ignore.

“I heard you,” he said suddenly, his voice low.

Both of them looked over. Teto’s brows lifted, Guzmán stilled halfway through a sip.

Carlos shifted, fingers curling against the edge of his cushion. “The other night. You and Lando. Talking in the kitchen.”

Silence stretched. Teto set his phone aside slowly. Guzmán sat up a little, his expression careful.

“What did you hear?” Teto asked gently.

Carlos glanced down at his hands. “Enough. That he’s… not as fine as he wants me to believe.” He hesitated, throat tight. “That he’s still… that I still matter to him more than I realised.”

Neither of them rushed to fill the space. Guzmán leaned forward on his elbows, his voice steady when he finally spoke. “He didn’t want you to know. Not like that.”

“I figured.” Carlos exhaled slowly, eyes flicking to the muted replay on the screen before back to them. “But I need to ask. How bad is it? Really.”

Teto rubbed a hand over his jaw, his mouth pressing thin. “He’s keeping it together. For you. But… it’s costing him. He barely sleeps when he’s here. Eats because we put a plate in front of him. Pretends it’s easy, but…” He shook his head. “It’s not.”

Guzmán nodded, quieter. “He loved you, hermano. Still does. That hasn’t gone anywhere.”

Carlos felt the words settle heavy under his skin, sharp and soft all at once. He dragged a hand over his face, the glow from the television blurring in the corner of his vision. “He shouldn’t. Not like this. I can’t give him what he thinks we had.”

“He knows,” Guzmán said gently. “He said it himself. Doesn’t stop him.”

Teto leaned forward now, elbows braced on his knees. “For him, it’s not about what he gets. It’s about you being alright. That’s enough.”

Carlos swallowed, the weight of it thick in his throat. “That’s not fair on him.”

“No,” Teto agreed softly. “It isn’t.”

The room went quiet again, the sound of commentators breaking faintly from the television. Carlos sat back slowly, his chest tight, staring at the screen without seeing it. He didn’t speak again until the lights at the end of the pit lane flashed green for Q2, the roar of engines filling the silence he couldn’t.

*~*~*~*~*

The flat was quiet, the kind of quiet that made the clink of a glass in the kitchen sound too loud. Teto and Guzmán had settled on the sofa with the television muted, half watching highlights of a match neither of them seemed very invested in. Carlos sat in the armchair near the window, the soft blue glow from the screen catching the side of his face, his thoughts heavier than the silence.

He’d been carrying them around since qualifying, waiting for the right moment. Tonight, with Lando half a world away in Austin, it felt like the chance he kept avoiding.

He didn’t look up when he spoke.

“I’ve been thinking,” he murmured.

Teto clicked the volume off entirely, turning toward him without hesitation. Guzmán shifted, leaning forward, brows pulling faintly as if bracing for something serious.

Carlos drew a breath, steady but low. “When Lando gets back from Brazil, I’m going to talk to him. I want him to stop looking after me like this.”

Teto frowned. “You mean—?”

“I mean I don’t want him here every hour, worrying about whether I’ve eaten or slept or if I’ve done the stretches Gigi gave me.” Carlos rubbed a hand across his jaw, restless. “It’s not his job. He’s exhausting himself trying to make sure I’m alright. And he’s got his own career to worry about.”

Guzmán’s mouth pressed into a line. “You think he’ll listen to that?”

“He has to.” Carlos shifted back against the chair. “I don’t want him burning out because of me. He needs distance. And so do I.” His gaze dipped, voice quieter. “I need to focus on getting better — properly better. Not just getting through each day.”

The silence stretched. It was Teto who asked gently, “And what does that mean, for you?”

Carlos hesitated, then said, “It means I stop avoiding the hard part. The memories. I’ve been… letting it slide. Telling myself they’ll come when they come. But I can’t live like this, pretending twelve months of my life never happened. I want them back. Not because of Lando —” he shook his head quickly, catching their looks — “but because they’re mine. I can’t keep going half-blind.”

Guzmán leaned back, watching him closely. “So you’ll… what? Work with a specialist?”

“That. And anything else that might help.” Carlos’ voice was firmer now, steadier for having spoken the decision aloud. “Photos, videos, going back to places I’ve been. Even if it’s painful. I need to give myself the chance.”

Teto’s expression softened, though there was a seriousness in it too. “That’s really good, hermano. But you have to know… it might not all come back.”

Carlos nodded. “I know. But I’d rather face that than keep hiding from it.” He glanced down, hand tightening on the armrest. “And I’d rather Lando wasn’t here watching me struggle through it. Not now.”

For a moment, none of them spoke. Then Guzmán reached over, his hand closing briefly, firmly, around Carlos’ forearm. “Whatever you need — we’ll be here. You don’t have to do this alone.”

The words landed steady, grounding. Carlos gave a small, grateful nod, the tightness in his chest easing just a fraction. He wasn’t sure how the conversation with Lando would go, or what it would leave between them, but for the first time he felt like he’d drawn a line he needed.

*~*~*~*~*

Two days later, Carlos found himself in a clinic that smelled faintly of antiseptic and polished floors. The drive over had been quiet, the city rolling past without quite registering. Teto had offered to come in with him, but Carlos had shaken his head — he wanted to face this part alone.

The neurologist was calm, his voice measured, his manner precise without being cold. He’d studied the scans, asked questions that felt too simple and too impossible at once: Did he dream of the missing time? Did certain names or places spark anything?

Carlos had answered as best he could, his fingers tightening against his thigh when the questions brushed too close to the blank he carried.

“Time will help,” the doctor said finally. “But not time alone. The brain responds to repetition, to association. Photographs, video, conversations with people you trust. Revisiting places tied to strong emotion. Even scents, sounds, routines. Anything that stirs a pattern the brain might still hold.” He paused, his gaze steady. “We can set up structured sessions. They may not restore everything. But they can help you reconnect with what’s missing.”

Carlos had nodded, though the knot in his chest hadn’t loosened. The doctor hadn’t promised miracles. But he had offered a path — not certainty, only a direction. And that felt like more than Carlos had had in weeks.

Later, back at the flat, the late afternoon light slanting pale across the sitting room, he told Teto and Guzmán. He kept it brief, sitting forward with his elbows braced on his knees. “He thinks… photos, videos, even going back to certain places. Trigger points, he called them. Not a fix, but something to try.”

Teto leaned back against the arm of the sofa, watching him with steady eyes. “Then we’ll help. Whatever you need.”

“Claro,” Guzmán added, softer than usual. “Step by step, hermano.”

Carlos gave a faint, crooked smile, though his chest felt heavy. “It won’t change anything between me and Lando,” he said quietly, the words slipping out before he could stop them. “Even if I remembered it all… I don’t think it would.”

Neither of them argued. Teto only reached across to nudge his knee lightly, the way he used to before karting races when Carlos was nervous. “Doesn’t have to. This is about you.”

That night, the flat had settled into a hush. Guzmán had disappeared into the spare room with a book, Teto muttering faintly to himself as he set up the sofa bed in the lounge. Carlos lay in his own room, the curtains half‑drawn, the glow of the city bleeding through in quiet amber streaks.

His phone was still in his hand, the screen dimmed low, thumb hovering over the gallery. He’d lingered too long on the photos already. Lando on a golf course, head thrown back in laughter. Lando pressed close at a dinner table, cheeks flushed, dimples cutting deep. Lando at a race, his helmet under one arm, his smile brighter than the floodlights behind him.

Each image tugged something loose inside him. Not memories — not in the way the doctor had described — but a shadow of feeling. A warmth that ached even as it comforted. He exhaled slowly, dragging a hand over his face. The neurologist’s words echoed: association, repetition, trusted people. He’d promised himself he would try, that he’d face the blank instead of skirting it. But the truth pressed sharp — almost every thread of that missing year seemed to circle back to Lando.

Carlos shut his eyes, the weight of it pressing harder. Lando had given him everything. Care, patience, laughter threaded through the heaviness of recovery. And still, when Carlos looked at him now, he didn’t see the man he’d once loved. Not the way Lando deserved.

He thought of the conversation he’d overheard, Lando’s voice low and raw in the kitchen, admitting what Carlos hadn’t wanted to face: that he was burning himself out. That he was still in love with someone who couldn’t give it back. The ache in Carlos’ chest sharpened. He couldn’t let this go on. He couldn’t keep letting Lando pour himself dry for a future that wasn’t coming back.

He rolled onto his side, careful with his shoulder, staring at the faint stripe of light across the wall. The thought settled, heavy but certain: when Lando came back, Carlos would tell him. He’d thank him, he’d mean it — and then he’d ask him to step back. To let Carlos handle his own recovery, with Teto, Guzmán, his family, anyone else.

It wasn’t about pushing him out forever. It was about air. About giving them both the space they needed to survive this without tearing themselves apart. And maybe — maybe — if he worked hard enough, if he followed the doctor’s advice and dug into the blank, he’d get some of it back. Not to fix what was gone with Lando. He knew, with a dull certainty, that even if the memories returned, the relationship wouldn’t. Too much had shifted. Too many fractures.

But he wanted them back all the same. He wanted to stand on solid ground again, to know the shape of his own life without guessing at the edges. He didn’t want to live with a year carved out of him like it had never been.

His eyes burned as he lay there, listening to the faint creak of the flat settling around him, the murmur of Teto’s laugh from the lounge. He thought of the photo he’d left glowing on his phone — Lando, laughing at something Carlos couldn’t remember — and let the ache press deeper, sharper.

For the first time, he admitted it to himself: he might never love anyone the way Lando had loved him. And he couldn’t give it back. So he’d let him go. For both of them.

*~*~*~*~*

The flat felt fuller the moment Lando stepped through the door, as if the three weeks without him had stretched longer than they should. Teto had filled the silence with noise, Guzmán with easy jokes, Gigi with brisk instructions — but none of it had felt the same. Even the light in the rooms had seemed flatter, quieter, like the air had been holding its breath.

Now Lando was back, dropping his bag by the wall without even glancing at it, smile quick and bright despite the faint shadows under his eyes. He looked tired — properly tired — hair flattened from the flight, a faint crease running down one cheek like he’d dozed against the plane window. But his voice was warm, dimples flashing as he greeted them like he’d never been gone, as if the weeks away had only been a blink.

Dinner had been easy enough — laughter spilling from Teto, Guzmán needling Lando about jet lag, Lando deflecting with the same quick wit he always had. Carlos kept up, nodding, smiling where it fit, even joining the teasing once or twice. If anyone had walked in, they’d have thought everything was fine. Almost normal.

But later, when the others drifted toward the kitchen still arguing about which wine to open, Lando stayed behind. He slouched into the armchair across from Carlos, stretching his legs out carelessly as if they’d done this a hundred times before. His grin softened when their eyes met, dimples cutting in, familiar in a way that tugged hard under Carlos’ ribs.

“Miss me?” he asked lightly, dimples deepening.

Carlos huffed, careful to keep it even. “Place was almost too quiet without you.”

Lando smirked, tipping his head back, curls flopping over his forehead. “Bet they didn’t let you win at FIFA either.”

“Not once,” Carlos said, voice steady. “Might have to dock you points for abandoning me.”

“Tragic,” Lando replied, his grin quick, though it faded almost as fast as it came. He reached for the cuff of his hoodie, picking at a loose thread, and the quiet between them stretched, heavier than before. Not uncomfortable, exactly, but waiting — like both of them knew there was more beneath the easy words.

Carlos shifted against the cushions, feeling the fabric tug under his palm. He drew in a slow breath, steadying himself. “Lando.”

“Yeah?”

He hesitated for a beat, watching the brightness in Lando’s eyes — not quite real, not quite reaching. Then, steady but low: “You don’t have to do this. Being here every day. Like it’s yours to carry.”

Lando’s smile twitched, quick and automatic. “I’m not carrying anything. Just keeping you company. Someone’s got to stop you sulking into the soup.”

Carlos didn’t laugh. “Don’t brush it off.” His voice was quiet, but it cut through. “I know it’s costing you.”

Lando’s gaze dropped, thumb working harder at the loose thread on his sleeve. The pause stretched before he spoke, quiet and low. “So what?”

A beat.

“You want me to leave?”

Carlos’ chest tightened. “I think… it’s better if you go home for a while. After this. Focus on racing. Let me focus on getting better. Properly better.” He paused, choosing the words carefully. “The neurologist thinks there’s a chance I might get some memories back. With the right work. I need to try.”

Lando looked up quickly, eyes sharp, the flicker of hope there almost painful to see. “And you think it’ll happen?”

“I don’t know,” Carlos admitted, the honesty tasting heavy on his tongue. “But I can’t avoid it anymore. I’ve been pretending I was fine with the blank, but I’m not. I need to face it. Even if it doesn’t change anything.”

Silence stretched, the low hum of the fridge in the kitchen suddenly loud in the stillness. Lando swallowed, nodded once. He tried for a grin, but it was unsteady, dimples not quite reaching.

“Well. Guess you’ll finally be free from me nicking your shampoo and pretending it’s not on purpose.”

Carlos almost smiled, though the weight of it pressed hard. “You really thought I didn’t notice?”

Lando’s laugh came soft, crooked. “I was banking on brain damage.” He rubbed a hand over his face, dragging the sleeve with him, then let it fall, the humour bleeding out with it. “But if this is what you want… I’ll give you that.”

Carlos’ voice dropped lower, steadier. “It’s not about wanting you gone. It’s about both of us being able to breathe.”

From the kitchen came Guzmán’s laugh, quick and loud, followed by Teto’s mock-offended protest. Their voices rolled into the flat, but Carlos didn’t look away from Lando. The brightness of his smile now looked too careful, stretched thin over something fragile.

“Then I’ll breathe,” Lando said softly. “Promise.”

Carlos knew he wouldn’t. Not really. But he didn’t push. He only nodded, the ache settling deeper as the silence stretched between them.

*~*~*~*~*

The first week after his talk with Lando passed with a kind of quiet Carlos hadn’t expected. Not silence exactly — Teto and Guzmán filled the flat with their usual noise, half-arguments over what to cook, bursts of laughter from the sofa during matches, voices rising every time someone missed a sitter or got booked for diving. But beneath it, there was a stillness, an absence that sat closer than either of them would admit.

Lando’s absence.

Carlos didn’t say it aloud, but he felt it in the space beside him when he sat at the table, in the unclaimed corner of the sofa, in the way the kettle seemed to take longer to boil without Lando’s impatient fidgeting nearby. The flat still smelled faintly of his shampoo, some citrus-and-herbal thing that clung to the bathroom even days later. Sometimes Carlos caught it when he bent to wash his face and had to close his eyes against the sudden, sharp ache of familiarity.

He threw himself into routine instead.

Mornings started with physio. Gigi arrived on the dot, voice brisk, movements precise. Shoulder stretches first — slow arcs that made the muscles burn as though they were being carved back into shape. Then the ribs, careful breathing drills that pulled and tugged in a way Carlos hated but endured. Leg work followed, his steps along the balcony short and measured, the sea wind sharp against his face. By the end of each session, he was sweating, chest tight, but Gigi always gave the faintest approving nod before leaving, muttering about progress under his breath.

The rest of the day stretched long. He played FIFA when the others insisted, pretending to care about the score, pretending he didn’t notice the way they let him win more often than not. He joined them at meals, fork in hand, smiling when Guzmán told a story about a disastrous date, or when Teto mocked him for eating too slowly. Sometimes he played golf, when the weather held and his shoulder allowed it — the calm of it familiar, if not quite comforting. But he missed the long rides most of all, the steady rhythm of cycling through open roads, headphones in, the world narrowing to breath and motion.

On the surface, it looked normal — just mates sharing a flat, filling the hours with easy noise.But each night, when the lights dimmed and the others drifted to bed, the quiet settled heavier. That was when Carlos reached for the notebook. The neurologist had been clear: write what you remember, what feels certain. Even if it’s nothing new, write until the missing space feels less sharp.

So he wrote.

He wrote about karting in Madrid, the smell of petrol clinging to his clothes. About his first win in F1, the rush of the flag waving, his father’s voice crackling through the phone after. About the little things — family dinners, golf games in the off-season, the feel of the McLaren steering wheel under his palms years ago.

He filled pages with fragments of a life that still belonged to him. But the gap — those twelve months — remained untouched. When he tried to circle closer, his pen hovered over the page, refusing to drop the words. He wrote instead around it, the edges of the blank year, as if mapping the perimeter would eventually show him the way inside.

Sometimes, as he closed the notebook, he caught himself wondering if Lando had done the same. If somewhere, on his own flights between races, Lando had written Carlos into margins to stop the ache of forgetting. The thought pressed sharp enough that he’d shove the notebook back into the drawer too quickly, forcing the idea away.

At night, lying in the half-dark with the hum of the fridge carrying faintly down the hall, Carlos let the quiet press closer. He told himself it was enough — that the stretches, the physio, the writing were steps forward. That the heaviness he felt was progress, not loss. But each time he shifted and found the space beside him empty, he wasn’t sure he believed it.

*~*~*~*~*

As the days went on, the air turned colder. Carlos pulled a sweatshirt over his head most mornings now, the autumn air sharp against his skin as he stepped out onto the balcony for stretches. The days were shorter, the light thinner. It felt like a kind of tightening — not unpleasant, just noticeable. Like the world was pulling inwards.

He had a routine now, and that helped. Gigi came and went, sharp-eyed and efficient, occasionally making notes in that little worn notebook of his. The shoulder was improving, the ribs less stiff. The limp from his thigh injury had faded enough that he could manage the stairs down to the car without holding the rail. These were small victories. He let them count.

What he didn’t say — what he didn’t even write in the notebook — was that the mental work was harder. The exercises for memory weren’t measurable the same way physio was. There was no stretch to hold, no rep to increase. The neurologist had been gentle but honest: Sometimes it comes back with time. Sometimes it doesn’t. But repetition helps. Familiarity helps.

So Carlos made flashcards with dates and events from those twelve months — things Teto and Guzmán had helped him fill in. He flicked through them slowly, reading them out loud. Singapore win. Abu Dhabi podium. A holiday with Lando in Sicily. Team change announcements. Charles’ birthday party in Monaco. A week in Mallorca.

He could say them all. But saying them wasn’t the same as remembering them. That distinction grew heavier the longer he sat with it.

Lando had left for Vegas on Tuesday, a quick hug at the door, voice light, saying he’d see them in a couple weeks. Carlos had nodded, given him a casual wave — too casual, maybe. But it felt easier to let it be like that.

Teto and Guzmán filled the space with background noise, but Carlos noticed how often his eyes drifted toward the door around mealtimes, as if expecting another voice to join them. He caught himself glancing at the clock on Saturday night, half-guessing where the Vegas race might be in the schedule.

He didn’t watch it live.

Not because he didn’t care, but because it felt too strange — to watch Lando from this distance, from this couch, alone. So he waited until the rerun, hours later, when the result was already known. Lando had qualified P6, finished P4. Solid drive. No commentary about off-track drama. The feed cut to the podium, and Carlos turned off the TV.

He stood for a long time in the dark afterwards, hand resting on the back of the sofa, staring at the blank screen. There was a moment — a fleeting one — when he thought about texting. Not about anything big. Just: Saw the race. You did well. He even opened the message window. But the words looked strange on the screen. Out of place. In the end, he didn’t send it.

That night, lying in bed with the notebook unopened beside him, Carlos closed his eyes and tried again. Tried to conjure something real from that gap — a sound, a place, a voice with meaning behind it. He let his mind drift through what he did remember. Lando smiling in a hotel corridor. Lando laughing on a golf course. Lando arguing about the best padel grip. All from before. All from the time he hadn’t lost.

Nothing new came.

Just the same ache behind his ribs. Just the same silence when he listened for something more.

*~*~*~*~*

The café was one of those places that always looked like it was trying a bit too hard — stone counters, glass jars, three different milk alternatives. Lando liked it anyway. Quiet, decent pastries, big windows. He was already seated when Carlos walked in, watching the door with one leg jiggling under the table.

Carlos spotted him immediately, pale juice sweating on the table in front of him, hair still damp from a shower. He looked rested, though a little too alert.

Lando straightened as Carlos approached. “Hey. You came.”

“You invited me,” Carlos said simply, sliding into the chair opposite with a low exhale. His body still moved like it needed a few seconds to agree to everything.

“Still,” Lando said, shrugging like it didn’t matter, like it hadn’t meant more than he could quite say. “Could’ve flaked.”

Carlos raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth tugging up. “I don’t flake.”

“Except on group dinners,” Lando pointed out.

“That’s strategy.”

Lando grinned then, the first real one. “Knew it.”

A server appeared. Carlos ordered a coffee, the bitter kind he’d never quite stopped craving no matter how much the doctors suggested cutting back. Lando twirled his straw through the melting ice.

“Still sticking to juice,” Carlos said, eyeing the glass with a faint smile.

Lando tipped it slightly in his hand. “Some of us aren’t built for bitter bean water.”

Carlos gave a soft snort. “Right. You’ll drink wine now, but coffee’s still too advanced?”

Lando shrugged, mouth twitching. “Thought it might help me win someone over.” He paused, eyes fixed on the glass, then added, quieter, more wry: “Ended up liking the wine more than I expected. Him too.”

Carlos stilled, just for a second — not enough to be awkward, but enough to feel it. He didn’t say anything. Just reached for his own glass, and the moment moved on like it hadn’t caught.

“How’s physio?” he asked finally.

“Brutal,” Carlos said. “But working.”

“Still having sessions every day?”

Carlos hummed. “Some days twice. Gigi’s treating it like pre-season.”

Lando smiled, but it didn’t quite meet his eyes. “Sounds like him.” He paused, flicking the straw again. “You look good.”

Carlos gave a quiet huff. “Don’t say colour’s come back. Everyone’s said it.”

Lando’s grin twitched wider. “Wasn’t going to. I’ve got range, you know.”

“I’m not convinced.”

They both chuckled lightly, and for a moment, it felt almost normal. Easy. Familiar.

Then Lando shifted in his seat, the humour thinning. “You heading to Madrid for Christmas?”

“Yeah,” Carlos said. “Just a few days. You?”

“Back home,” Lando said. “Mum’s expecting a proper visit. She’ll probably have half the family round.”

Carlos nodded. “Good.”

There was a silence again. Not awkward, but not relaxed either. Just... quiet.

Lando reached for his glass and took a sip, eyes fixed on the condensation. “I’m glad you’re getting better,” he said.

Carlos watched him. “You say that like you’re not sure it’s true.”

Lando looked up, startled. “No— I mean it. Of course I mean it.” He exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair. “I just— I don’t know. You’ve been doing it alone.”

Carlos blinked. “Not alone.”

“You know what I mean.” Lando’s voice dropped slightly. “I used to be the one who helped. It’s been weird not being that.”

Carlos’ chest ached, a different kind of pain this time, slower and harder to name.

“You still help,” he said. “Just not the way you used to.”

Lando looked at him for a long moment. “Right.”

They both went quiet again, not quite knowing what to do with the shape of that silence.

Eventually, Lando stood. “I should go. Got to finish packing.”

Carlos stood too, slower. “When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow morning. Qatar, then Abu Dhabi. And then... that’s it.”

“For the season,” Carlos said.

“Yeah.” Lando gave him a quick, almost fond smile. “You’ll text me if anything changes?”

“I will.”

“Good.” Lando hesitated. “And if not, I’ll see you after Christmas?”

Carlos nodded. “After Christmas.”

They stepped outside together, the street quiet, sun already sinking low behind the buildings. Lando shoved his hands into his jacket pockets.

“Take care, alright?” he said.

Carlos met his eyes. “You too.”

They didn’t hug this time. Just a pause, a shared glance, then Lando turned and walked down the street. Carlos watched him go, a flicker of something heavy and unspoken tightening in his throat. He walked home alone. The quiet was different now. Not thinner — just heavier.

*~*~*~*~*

The Madrid house felt exactly as it always had at Christmas — loud in pockets, warm everywhere, the air carrying the familiar mix of roasting meat, cinnamon, and the faint drift of wood smoke from the chimney. Every surface seemed dressed for the holiday: garlands along the banister, the nativity scene under the tree, candles tucked between bowls of sugared almonds.

Carlos had been home nearly a week, slipping into the pattern without effort. Late breakfasts. Long lunches. The thrum of conversation always somewhere nearby, even when he’d retreated upstairs to read or take a call.

This afternoon the dining table was crowded, the extra seats added so they could all fit. Ana sat to his left, her youngest perched on her lap, while Blanca was opposite, leaning in to speak to her husband over the noise. The nephews darted in and out of their chairs, the half-hearted scolding from Reyes never quite sticking. His father looked quietly pleased at the head of the table, wine glass in hand.

“How is physio training going?” Ana asked, once the plates from the main course were cleared. She had that tone that was casual on the surface but edged with the kind of care siblings could never quite disguise.

Carlos rested his forearms on the table, fingers loose around his water glass. “Better. Slow, but… better. I’m running again — not far, but enough to feel like myself. Gigi’s happy.”

“And your head?” Blanca’s husband asked from further down.

He didn’t mind the question — not here. “Still the same with the memories. The doctors say it’s possible some things might come back on their own. I’ve been working a lot with my neurologist too. Little exercises, triggers… anything to see if something clicks.” He gave a small shrug. “Nothing big yet.”

Reyes reached across to lay her hand briefly over his wrist. “It will come. You’ve always been stubborn enough for it.”

He smiled faintly at that, not correcting her. “It’s strange, though. I remember everything else — just not that one year. Feels like a gap in a book I’ve read before.”

The conversation shifted after that, easing back toward holiday plans, the nephews clamouring for attention. Laughter returned — light, familiar — and the thread of normalcy picked up again. But Carlos still felt it: the gentle pull of their awareness, even as they moved on. Not pity, exactly. Just the quiet way they made space for what he couldn’t say.

Later, when coffee was served and the children ran off toward the living room, he found himself on the terrace with his father. The city spread out below, streetlights threading through the dark.

“You look stronger,” his father said, after a moment.

Carlos nodded. “I feel it. Physically, at least. The rest…” He gestured vaguely toward his temple. “That’s harder.”

His father made a thoughtful noise. “One thing at a time, hijo. You’ve come far already.”

Carlos didn’t answer straight away. He thought of the year he couldn’t touch, of the pieces other people held for him, and of how much he wanted to own them again — not for anyone else, just for himself.

The house was quieter after midnight. The children were finally asleep, the last glasses cleared away, the terrace door shut against the cold. Carlos had lingered by the fire for a while with Ana and Blanca, the conversation turning to childhood holidays and how little had changed in the way Reyes organised the day. Eventually, the sisters went up, leaving him to climb the stairs alone.

In his room, the light from the streetlamps painted the ceiling. He lay back on the bed, phone in hand, scrolling past the usual Christmas messages — team staff, a few drivers, friends from school. His thumb hovered over Lando’s name longer than he meant it to.

‘Feliz Navidad. I hope you’re having a good day with your family.’ Carlos read it twice before hitting send. No weight to it, no expectation. Just something simple.

The reply came a few minutes later: ‘Thanks, mate. Hope you didn’t eat all the turron by yourself.’

Carlos huffed a small breath through his nose, almost a laugh, and typed back, ‘Not yet.’

*~*~*~*~*

Monaco felt colder in winter than he’d remembered, the kind of sharp, dry air that stung the skin without warning. Carlos let himself into the flat in the late afternoon, the fading light stretched thin across the windows, and set his bag down by the door. The stillness pressed in. After a week of noise — chairs scraping, overlapping voices, the smell of roasting meat drifting through the house — the quiet felt unnatural.

He moved slowly, putting away the small stack of neatly folded clothes Reyes had insisted he take back, tucking a wrapped tin of turrón onto the counter. The smell of cinnamon and orange peel still clung faintly to his scarf. It pulled at something — a room lit warm in the evening, glasses on the table, Lando leaning back in his chair with his hand curled around the stem of a wine glass.

The image jarred. As long as Carlos could remember, Lando had never liked wine. He’d sniff it, grimace, take a polite sip at most. And yet here — wherever this was, whenever it was — Lando looked at ease, almost smug, like he enjoyed it. Carlos blinked, the memory slipping loose. He leaned against the counter, frowning faintly to himself. Hard to square it — Lando and wine. Even harder to think that he might have been the reason for the change. That somewhere in the missing stretch of time, he’d gotten Lando to like it.

It happened again when he reached for the jumper folded at the bottom of his bag. The fabric was soft under his hands, a faint worn patch near the cuff. He could see fingers — not his — tugging at the sleeve, pushing it up his arm, laughter somewhere just out of frame. The sound was so vivid his chest ached. He sat down on the edge of the bed, the jumper pooled in his lap, and tried to follow the thread back to when, or where, it had been. Nothing came. Just the echo.

That night he texted Teto — not about the memories, not yet — just to say he was back. No expectations, no plan. Just a short line, a familiar rhythm.

The reply came quickly, easy and warm. It settled something in his chest.

They met the next afternoon for a walk along the harbour, the wind knifing in under their collars, hands stuffed deep into coat pockets. The sky was high and pale, the air sharp with salt and diesel and early winter. For a while, they didn’t say much — just fell into step, the way they always had.

“You look tired,” Teto said, glancing sideways.

Carlos shrugged. “Haven’t slept much since Christmas.” He hesitated, then added, “Been… remembering small things. Not enough to make sense of it.”

Teto didn’t press, just nodded, letting the silence stretch between them. Carlos was grateful for it. He wasn’t ready to put the flashes into words, not when they came without warning, without certainty, leaving him unsure if he was recovering something real or inventing it to fill the gap.

The days that followed settled into a quiet rhythm. Morning swims when the sea was still pale and glassy, the shock of cold water sharpening the edges of his thoughts. Afternoons in the gym, the measured repetition of exercises building strength back into muscles that had been too long idle. Evenings with books he didn’t finish, or football on the television without really watching. The flashes came more often now — not quite memories, not yet — just moments slipping through, gone before he could hold them.

Once, slicing bread in the kitchen, he’d looked up to find the counter littered with mismatched plates, music playing somewhere, Lando leaning across to steal something from the cutting board. Another time, walking past the marina, the wind had carried a scent he couldn’t name, and with it the sound of Lando’s laugh, low and close to his ear, the kind that pulled at him without warning. Each time he tried to pin it down, the image frayed and dissolved, leaving only the ache.

Outside, Monaco had started to glitter for the new year — lights strung across balconies, the harbour thick with yachts dressed for celebration. Carlos wasn’t expecting to see Lando. He’d assumed he’d be in the UK, with family or friends. But on the afternoon of the thirty-first, his phone buzzed with a short message — ‘Back in town for a couple of days. You around?’

Carlos stared at it for longer than he meant to. Then typed out a reply, simple and neutral: ‘Yeah. Let me know where.’ Maybe he should have thought it through more. But he hadn’t. Not really.

They met that evening at a small bar tucked into one of the narrow streets above the port — dimly lit, tucked away, the kind of place chosen for quiet rather than show. Lando was already there, hunched slightly over a corner table with a tall glass of something vivid orange in front of him.

“Happy almost New Year,” he said as Carlos approached, a grin flickering across his face — familiar, a little hesitant.

Carlos slid into the seat opposite, the air thick with citrus and wood smoke, a hint of Lando’s cologne carrying across the table. He glanced at the drink, then back at him.

“I thought you'd be in the UK.”

Lando shrugged, stirring the ice in his glass. “Wasn’t really feeling it. Too much noise. Figured I’d keep it low key this year. Couple of mates around.”
His eyes flicked to Carlos, light but searching. “You?”

“Madrid for Christmas,” Carlos said. “Then came back here right after. Trying to get back into routine, mostly. Rehab, training. Some memory work.”

Lando nodded slowly, and for a moment it looked like he might say something else — something more — but then he reached for his glass instead.

They talked after that, easing into the kind of conversation that filled time without touching it too directly. Bits of the season, updates from the paddock, who was switching teams, who was rumoured to be unhappy where. Safe things. But every so often, Carlos would catch the way Lando’s hand moved — resting on the edge of his glass, or braced against the table — and it would pull at something in his chest. A flicker. A sense of déjà vu so sharp it nearly unseated him.

He didn’t mention it. Just filed the feeling away, like he had with the others — the half-formed flashes, the emotional echoes with no clear source.

By the time they stepped out onto the quiet street, the air had cooled into something close to cold. The lights above the port shimmered faintly in the distance, and Lando paused just outside the door, hands stuffed in his pockets.

Carlos glanced at him once — the outline of him in the glow of the streetlamp, familiar in a way he couldn’t explain — and felt something twist in his chest. An impulse rose, sudden and inexplicable. He wanted to lean in. To close the distance. To kiss him.

The thought struck like cold water.

He stepped back too quickly, words tumbling out before he could think. “I should go.”

Lando blinked. “Oh. Yeah, okay.”

Carlos didn’t look at him again — just muttered something half-formed and turned away, the cool night air rushing sharp against his skin as he walked. He didn’t stop until he was home. Didn’t speak. Didn’t sit down. He just stood in the middle of the flat, pulse tight in his throat, trying to make sense of the ache in his chest and the strange, impossible pull that still hadn’t let go.

*~*~*~*~*

The café wasn’t busy yet, just the low murmur of a few early customers and the smell of coffee drifting from behind the counter. They’d taken the table near the window, the one where you could still see the water between the buildings. Carlos sat with his hands wrapped around a mug that had long stopped steaming.

They’d been talking idly — La Liga, Guzmán’s neighbour’s ridiculous Christmas lights — when the question slipped out before he could second-guess it.

“When did it start? With… me and Lando?” He could feel Teto and Guzmán’s attention shift instantly, the quiet pull of it.

“I mean, I know something happened after Abu Dhabi. I remember almost nothing except… moments. Like we were already in it. But I don’t remember how we got there. How it turned into… that.”

There was a pause. Then Carlos glanced sideways. “Do you know?”

Teto’s look was careful, measured. “You’re sure you want to hear it now?”

Carlos gave a small nod. “I think so.”

They didn’t rush. Guzmán tilted his head, as if weighing how far back to go. “It was after Abu Dhabi,” he said eventually. “We were all out that night — you, him, McLaren people, half the grid, I think.”

Carlos tried to picture it and something stirred — music loud in his chest, the salt of a margarita glass on his tongue, Lando somewhere in the press of bodies — but it slipped away before he could hold it.

Teto picked up the thread. “You went back to Spain for Christmas. Spent time with your family. Then later that month you were in Monaco a lot. We saw more of him around.”

Carlos frowned faintly. “And before that? We weren’t—”

“No,” Guzmán said, shaking his head. “You were friends. Good friends, yes, but after you and Rebecca ended things, you seemed… different with him. Happier. Or maybe lighter.”

Carlos let that sit, though it pressed strangely against his ribs. He thought of another fragment — a door opening onto dim hotel light, Lando standing there, hair messy, eyes too bright for the late afternoon. No sound, just the impression of him stepping closer. Carlos felt it catch low in his stomach and then dissolve, like mist.

“What about my parents?” he asked quietly.

Teto exhaled through his nose. “Reyes found it hard at first. Your father… you know he loves Lando, but I don’t think he ever fully accepted your relationship. Not the way you might have wanted.”

Something in Carlos tightened, but he only nodded. The quay was almost empty now, gulls wheeling over the darkening water.

“And me?” he asked. “What did I seem like?”

“You were happy. You wanted it,” Teto said simply. “Whatever doubts you had, you fought for him.”

Carlos sat back in his chair, eyes drifting toward the edge of the harbour where the sea met the sky in a thin, hazy line. The words settled into him like stones — steadying and unsteadying all at once — while the faint trace of that hotel room lingered, just out of reach, refusing to take shape. Somewhere nearby, cutlery clinked against porcelain, the low hum of other conversations weaving through the open air. A boat rocked gently in the marina below, the soft knock of wood against the dock carrying up with the breeze.

“You two were…” Guzmán gave a small shrug, a grin tugging faintly. “Obvious, sometimes. At least to us.”

Carlos glanced at him, brow pulling together. “Obvious how?”

Teto’s mouth curved, not quite a smile. “You didn’t look at anyone else like that. And when you talked about him… it was different. Even before Abu Dhabi, we noticed it. After, well—” he made a vague gesture with his hand, “you didn’t hide it much when you were with us.”

Carlos shook his head, half in disbelief. “I don’t really remember any of this…”

“Not anything scandalous,” Guzmán said, amused. “Just little things. Standing too close. Knowing where he was in a room without looking. Laughing more.”

Carlos huffed under his breath, but it wasn’t quite a denial.

Teto tilted his head. “Do you remember anything at all about Zandvoort last year?”

Carlos searched for the name, the track, the smell of rain on tarmac — and then a flicker: Lando at the edge of a hospitality unit, grinning at him across a group of people. The memory was as quick as a match-flare and gone just as fast. “Maybe,” he murmured.

“You were good for each other,” Guzmán said after a moment, more serious now. “You pushed him. He steadied you. We could see it.”

Carlos kept his gaze on the dark ripples in the harbour. “And I didn’t… I mean, I’d never been with a man before him.”

Teto didn’t try to fill the silence right away. When he did speak, his voice was calm, steady.

“I know. And it scared you, at first. But not in the way I thought it might. You didn’t push it down or run from it — you let yourself feel it. You let yourself be sure.”

Carlos rubbed his fingers slowly along the rim of his cup, the warmth seeping into his skin. He could still see it, if he tried — the way Lando had looked in that half-formed hotel memory. The shape of him in the doorway, the weight of his presence filling the space between them. The feeling that he’d leaned in first — or maybe not. It was impossible to be sure.

Teto’s voice broke into the thought. “You know, you smiled more with him than I’d seen in years.”

Carlos didn’t answer right away. He wasn’t sure if the words reassured him or made the ground under him shift a little more. He only kept walking, the sound of their footsteps echoing along the quay, and let the silence fall again.

*~*~*~*~*

It was past midnight when he gave up trying to sleep. The flat was silent but for the faint hum of the fridge, the steady tick of the wall clock. He lay on his side, staring at the thin strip of light under the curtains, replaying Teto and Guzmán’s voices in his head.

You smiled more with him than I’d seen in years.
You didn’t back away from it.
You knew where he was in a room without looking.

The words circled, overlapping with the tug of half-formed images — a dark hotel corridor, the muted thud of bass from somewhere far below, the warm press of another body when they leaned close to be heard.

He closed his eyes and let himself lean toward it.

Abu Dhabi came first — the noise, the crush of bodies at the afterparty, lights strobing over sweat-damp hair. Lando in the middle of it, grinning like the night might never end. They’d both been drinking. Carlos remembered a hand at the back of his neck, laughter too close to his ear, the kind of easy contact that would have meant nothing between friends if it hadn’t lingered just a second longer than it should have.

The next thing was quieter, slower. His hotel room, late afternoon the next day — curtains half-drawn, the stale sweetness of spilled champagne clinging to the air. Everyone else was still sleeping off the hangover. He’d been sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling idly, when the knock came.

Lando in the doorway, hair messy, eyes soft but sharp in the dim light. No preamble, no joke, no hesitation — just a step forward and the sudden weight of him there, knees brushing, hand curling in Carlos’ shirt as if to make sure he didn’t pull away.

Carlos thought he’d meant to say something — ask what he was doing, maybe — but whatever it was died as soon as Lando’s mouth was on his. Warm, sure, tasting faintly of toothpaste and something sweeter he couldn’t place. The surprise of it had lasted only a breath before his own hand was at Lando’s jaw, tilting him closer, chasing the press and slide of lips until they were breathing too hard to pretend it hadn’t happened.

He opened his eyes in the dark, the ceiling a faint blur above him. The memory left his chest tight, uncertain — as if it could still tip, even now, into something else entirely.

The longer he lay there, the more the edges of it seemed to settle — not just a flash this time, but a whole stretch of moments he could turn over in his head. The sound of Lando’s breath between kisses. The warmth of his palm at the back of Carlos’ neck. The small shift of weight on the mattress when Lando leaned in closer, knees pressing against his.

It was the first time since the accident that a memory hadn’t slipped away the moment he tried to hold it. No blurring, no sudden blank. Just there, intact. And it wasn’t a meeting, a race, or some ordinary day he could file neatly into place. It was this.

He turned onto his back, one hand on his chest as if he could slow the pull there. Of all the pieces to fully come back first, why this? Not the start of the season, not some simple, unmarked afternoon. His first kiss with Lando — a moment he had actively tried not to think about until a few hours ago, and now he couldn’t stop seeing in detail.

There was a strange double weight to it. Relief, because it meant the year wasn’t lost forever. And something sharper, heavier, because the memory didn’t feel tentative or accidental. In it, he’d wanted to kiss him back. He’d pulled him closer. He hadn’t hesitated. The same pull he’d felt just a couple of nights ago, standing under the streetlamp outside the bar — sudden, disorienting, and impossible to ignore.

He thought of what Teto had said earlier — that he’d fought for Lando, wanted this. It had sounded distant then, like they were talking about someone else. Now, lying in the dark with the taste of that remembered kiss still fresh in his head, he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

His fingers pressed against his ribs, the steady rise and fall of his breathing the only sound in the flat. Somewhere outside, a car passed, tyres humming low against the tarmac. He let his eyes close again, half-afraid of losing the memory if he drifted off, half-afraid of what it might mean if he didn’t.

*~*~*~*~*

The bar was warm, crowded, the air thick with perfume and the sharp tang of champagne. Carlos stood with a small knot of familiar faces near the window, half-listening as they argued about where to watch the fireworks. Someone laughed beside him, brushing his arm with the edge of their coat, and a faint trace of cologne cut through the mix — citrus, and something warmer beneath.

It hit him before he could brace for it.

The same scent, but sharper, closer. A smaller apartment, dimly lit, music muffled by the walls. Lando slipping past him in a narrow hallway, shoulder grazing his chest, the barest tilt of a grin before he disappeared into the kitchen.

The present conversation blurred, voices turning into background noise. He could see himself a year ago, drink in hand, trying to act as though he wasn’t watching every step Lando took. Every time someone leaned in to talk to him, Carlos found his gaze sliding back across the room, to where Lando was talking with Max, hands moving animatedly, curls falling forward in the heat.

Another brush — this time a hand at his lower back, fleeting, barely there. It had made him turn then, Lando close enough that his eyes caught the low light, soft and amber.

In the memory, Carlos had smiled back, too quickly, then looked away before anyone else could notice. He’d told himself not to overthink it. They’d kissed once. That didn’t mean... Except it did. He’d known it then, with the bass of the music in his chest and the city outside buzzing toward midnight. Known it when Lando’s fingers lingered on his sleeve just a second longer than they needed to.

The pop of a champagne cork in the present made him blink. Someone handed him a fresh glass, the reflection of the room breaking over the bubbles. He murmured something non-committal, and the group’s chatter rolled on without him. But the memory stayed, pulsing at the edges.

He remembered the exact moment — somewhere between midnight and two — that the noise had faded enough for him to admit it to himself. He wanted this. Wanted him. Enough to risk whatever came with it.

The noise of the party faded somewhere behind him, dulled to a low hum, as if the walls had closed in. His fingers felt cold around the glass in his hand, though he couldn’t remember when he’d last taken a sip. The memory was still there, bright and immediate, and his body hadn’t caught up with the fact that it was over — his chest tight, pulse quick, the ghost of that first kiss caught in his mouth like a taste he couldn’t swallow.

It wasn’t just the clarity of it that shook him. It was the certainty. The way he’d leaned in without thinking, without the calculations that had always crowded his head when the idea of Lando had drifted too close. There’d been no fear in that moment. No weighing of his own boundaries, his career, his family’s expectations. Just the heat of the afternoon, the quiet of the room, the slow press of Lando’s mouth against his, and the feeling — sharp, unfiltered — that he wanted more.

Carlos drew in a slow breath, trying to push it aside, but the ache in his chest told him it wasn’t going anywhere. This was no stray image. This was his. Something real, from the year he’d lost. And now that he’d found it, he didn’t know if he wanted to hold on or run from it.

*~*~*~*~*

January settled like a weightless blanket, light and thin, almost not there until he noticed the hours had folded over themselves and the sea outside his window had changed colour again. Monaco in winter gave him crisp mornings and a slant of pale sun that found the glass of the terrace doors and warmed the tiles just enough to lift the chill from his feet. He measured days in physio exercises and in the small, stubborn protests of his ribs, in stretches that made his shoulder thrum, in the careful way he lowered himself to the sofa as if the furniture might judge him for moving slowly. When he walked the short circuit from kitchen to hall to living room, he listened to his body the way he used to listen to an engine at idle, searching for misfire. Most days it was fine. Some days there was a rough note he couldn’t tune out.

He spoke to Lando here and there, little messages threaded between appointments and naps, a call on a Wednesday evening when the flat felt hollow, the sea gone quiet.

“How’s the shoulder?” Lando had asked, the sound of a kettle somewhere in the background.

“Better. I can put a jumper on without swearing now.”

“That’s progress. What about physio?”

Carlos smiled faintly into the phone. “Gigi says I’m not as stubborn as last week.”

“That’s a first,” Lando said, warmth curling around the words.

Carlos listened with his head tipped back, eyes closed, thumb tracing the seam of the cushion beneath his palm. He found, maddeningly, that what his mind remembered best from these calls wasn’t the content but the warmth of Lando’s voice sitting in his ear, the way it vibrated faintly through the plastic and into the bones around his jaw, and the sense—always—of a hand he could not see but could feel, as if Lando were still holding him steady the way he had in the hospital. When they hung up, the phantom touch would flare for a second in his palm, and he would flex his fingers like a man testing a steering rack, wondering at the absurdity of missing something he didn’t fully understand.

On good mornings — and there were only just beginning to be more of them than bad — Carlos met Gigi at the small gym a few streets from the flat. The walk there was routine now, jacket zipped, cap low, moving through familiar corners of Monaco that still felt slightly misaligned. He passed the same bakery, the same café, the same florist with the buckets of eucalyptus and early spring blooms lined out on the pavement — but the world had a slant to it, as if someone had shuffled it just enough to make it feel unfamiliar.

His pace was steady, no longer stiff, though he still moved like his body was something he had to negotiate with rather than inhabit fully. The injury wasn’t fresh anymore, but the consequences had lingered. There was a fragility to his movements, not out of fear, but memory — as if the ache might catch him unawares if he didn’t tread carefully.

In the gym, they worked quietly. No music. No distraction. Gigi focused on range and control, the kind of drills that built from the ankles up, balance-led, form-first. The exercises were simple, precise. Carlos liked that. He liked knowing how many reps to do, what it should feel like, how to adjust if something pulled wrong.

He didn’t always like how his body answered back — but he was learning to listen.

That morning, they’d worked through a rotation of hip mobility and shoulder alignment drills, the kind that made you focus on your breathing whether you wanted to or not. Afterwards, while Carlos knelt to stow away a resistance band, Gigi nodded toward the edge of his gym bag, where his golf glove poked out, neatly folded.

“You ready to go full swing again?”

Carlos tugged at the strap to zip the bag closed, then sat back on his heels with a low breath. “Think I’m close.”

Gigi gave him a look — one of the few that didn’t need translating. Just a raised brow and a tilt of the chin that meant, Then let’s test it.

They drove out not long after, the afternoon stretching wide and quiet around them. The course was mostly empty — off-season, a little damp in places but not wet. The sky hung pale overhead, streaked with thin cloud, the sun diffused behind it like a slow exhale. A few older couples played ahead of them, well spaced out, the sounds of conversation and polite frustration drifting back on the breeze. Gigi wasn’t much of a golfer — he was there to watch, not to coach — and Carlos didn’t need anyone to explain the rules to him anyway.

He knew this game. He knew this grass. He knew the exact amount of give under his foot as he stepped up to the tee. This wasn’t his first time back since the accident — he’d been out once or twice with Teto and Guzmán, careful swings with low stakes — but it was the first time he felt like he could play. Not just stand there, not just go through the motions, but actually hit something.

He slipped on the glove with deliberate slowness, curling his fingers into it. The leather, worn smooth in the usual places, caught against the calluses returning to his palms. He liked the feel of it. The readiness of it.

He took his time lining up. It wasn’t just about posture — it was about memory. Muscle, yes, but something deeper too. A kind of stillness he had to find before the swing would come naturally. His hand tightened once on the grip. Loosened. Reset.

He wasn’t sure what he expected — something stiff, awkward, a half-swing at best — but as the club came down, the weight carried clean through his body, and the sound of contact was sharp and satisfying. The ball lifted, curved out over the slight ridge of the fairway, and landed true.

Carlos stood there for a moment, not in triumph, but in something quieter. Something like relief. He let his shoulders settle, let his pulse ease back down.

Gigi clapped once from behind, a sharp sound that startled a crow from the trees. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

Carlos rolled his eyes faintly but didn’t argue. The ache in his arms was there, but it wasn’t bad. Not sharp. Not limiting. He could work with this.

On the fourth hole, after another clean stroke and a soft curse from Gigi at how far he’d driven it, Carlos paused with the club balanced loosely in his hand. He was standing just at the edge of the green, glove off now, fidgeting with the Velcro, when the flicker hit him.

It wasn’t clear at first — it never was — just a shift in weight, the sense of standing here, in this spot, sometime before. There was laughter, low and familiar, and his own voice coming back in a half-teasing lilt.

“You going to talk the whole round, or are you planning on putting sometime this year?”

Another voice — not his, younger, sharper. Fuck off, I’ll sink this one. And then laughter. Overlapping. A playful shove with a shoulder.

Carlos froze, fingers curled tight against the back of the glove. It was brief. Blurry. But it was enough to know: it hadn’t just been Teto or Guzmán with him last time.

It had been Lando.

And he’d been laughing. Comfortable. Close.

Carlos let the memory slide away, not because he wanted to — but because that’s how they came. Quick, bright, gone. He straightened, gripped the club again, and finished the hole in two more strokes.

Later, when the light had faded and the ache had settled deep in his muscles like warmth cooling too slowly, he lay stretched out on the sofa with a cold bottle of water sweating against his palm. His legs were sore, and his right shoulder pulled faintly when he shifted — but not enough to mind.

He let the screen light wash over him. Notifications. Football scores. A news story about a junior driver he vaguely remembered meeting. His thumb paused when the algorithm served him a clip of the 2026 season.

Just a race highlight — low-res, loud music overlaid, awkward editing — but something in the thumbnail held him. Papaya. Silver. The bend of track at Suzuka.

He hit play.

It was just noise at first. Quick cuts of engine screams and radio static, bursts of overtakes and tyre smoke. The kind of racing highlight video stitched together for adrenaline — something to fill five minutes with nothing but motion.

Carlos let it roll, phone resting in his palm, head tipped back against the sofa cushion. The sound washed over him, not quite demanding attention.

Until it did.

Lap twenty-two — Norris goes for it! Down the inside! What a move on Sainz — wheel to wheel, millimetres in it...

Carlos sat forward before he knew he’d moved.

The screen blurred, Turn 9 flashing past in half-seconds, two cars dancing right at the edge of grip. A breathless laugh cut through the commentary, something helpless in it — the kind that came when no one could tell how it would end.

Carlos barely registered the result. It didn’t matter. All he could hear was the way their names landed together, Sainz and Norris, caught in that perfect balance of rivalry and familiarity. It stirred something sharp, something he didn’t have a word for.

Not jealousy. Not pride. Just missing.

The ache stayed, low and insistent, even as the clip ended. He scrubbed back with a flick of his thumb, ran it again. Watched the cars slip past, over and over, as if the right frame might unlock something.

And then, slowly — it did.

Not a memory in full, not right away. Just a shift in sensation.

The press of a wall against his back. The dry blast of overzealous air conditioning. The rubbery pull of the suit peeled to his waist, clinging faintly at the hips. The sound of distant footsteps, and a dull thud as a helmet was set down.

Carlos blinked. He was in the driver room. Not watching from the outside. There.

Sweat still cooling on his skin, bottle clutched loosely in one hand, posture slack in that way it only got after a race. His body knew this before his mind did.

He looked up. Lando was there. Leaning in the doorway like he had nowhere else to be — damp curls curling against his temple, cheeks flushed, grin loose and edged with leftover adrenaline.

“That looked… adventurous,” Carlos heard himself say, and the familiarity of his own voice startled him. It held that post-race lilt, somewhere between challenge and tease.

Lando grinned wider, breathing still not quite even. “Fun, though. Admit it.”

Carlos shook his head, but not with any real weight. “I’ll admit you have no fear.”

“You smiled when you watched it back.”

“I was smiling at you. That’s not the same.”

“Still counts,” Lando said, and reached past him for a towel — the movement bringing them close, the kind of close that was easy to excuse but hard to ignore. Their arms brushed. Neither of them moved.

The moment didn’t demand anything. No grand shift, no kiss, no revelation. Just the kind of stillness that made Carlos’ pulse shift gears without warning.

And then it slipped, like water through his fingers.

He was back in his flat. The video still playing, light now grey through the windows. The echo of the driver room fading fast. Carlos sat there, hand curled lightly into a fist, the ghost of the memory vibrating faintly in his chest. Not whole. Not sharp.

But real.

That evening he met Teto and Guzmán for an early dinner at a quiet place up above the harbour where you could hear the clink of cutlery more than the swell of conversation.

“You’re walking normally now,” Teto said as Carlos eased into his chair.

“Feels less like I’m made of spare parts,” Carlos replied.

“You still look like you could use a few more kilos,” Guzmán added, studying him.

“I’m working on it,” Carlos said, unfolding his napkin.

They were both too careful with him in ways that made him fond and irritated at once, taking the heavier chair, not letting him pour the water, exchanging looks when he caught his breath too sharply. He waited until the main plates were cleared and the room had thinned out.

“I had a memory,” he said finally.

“Another flash?” Guzmán asked.

“No. Not a flash. I was in it. After a race. We were talking.” He hesitated. “It was… easy. Familiar. I knew everything about it.”

Teto leaned forward. “And?”

Carlos turned his glass in his hands. “And I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t even know what it means yet.”

“You don’t have to know,” Guzmán said. “Let it come. Write it down. Tell us. Don’t tell Lando until you’re sure.”

“I’m not telling him,” Carlos said, more quickly than he meant to. “Not yet. I don’t want to make him wait for something I might not… I might not be able to give.”

Teto nodded. “Then don’t. But if it’s meant to be more, you won’t be able to ignore it.”

Carlos gave a short laugh. “You sound like my mother.”

“Then she’s right,” Teto said.

“Meanwhile,” Guzmán added, “order dessert. Something that isn’t fruit.”

Carlos huffed, which made his ribs ache, which earned him identical looks from across the table. “Fine. Dessert.”

They left the restaurant in cool air, walking down the hill together. At his building, Carlos paused, phone in his hand, tempted to call Lando and tell him everything — the lemon-scented air, the towel hook, the easy grin. Instead, he slipped the phone into his pocket and went inside.

*~*~*~*~*

The last week of January brought a different rhythm. The days were still marked by physio sessions, light gym work, and the same careful negotiations with his ribs and shoulder, but now there was also the neurologist’s list of exercises sitting on his kitchen counter. Flashcards. Lists of names and events. A notebook he was supposed to fill with anything that came back, no matter how small.

He had laughed when she suggested music might help, telling her his playlists were mostly for training or road trips, not therapy. She had only shrugged, told him the brain wasn’t picky about where the triggers came from, and that repetition could pull things loose in ways you didn’t expect. The thought had followed him home, settling somewhere between curiosity and doubt.

It was a Thursday evening when he set a pan on the hob and let a playlist run on his phone, the same one he used last year to cook after long bike rides. Outside, the light was already pulling away from the day, the sea turning that dark, dense blue that hinted at night. The smell of garlic softened in oil hung in the air, the sizzle low and steady, when a song started — one he hadn’t queued in months.

He turned the heat down automatically, knife still in his hand, because the first notes had knocked the breath out of him.

It was all at once. A night in January — the bedroom warm against the cold outside, the door clicking shut behind Lando with a quiet finality. The taste of wine lingered faintly on Carlos’ tongue, laughter still echoing in his chest, sharp and breathless. Lando had looked at him then — just looked — and something shifted, low and irrevocable. He stepped in close, close enough that Carlos could smell the mix of aftershave and skin, the faintest trace of salt. The kiss wasn’t new, not anymore — but what came after was. The way Lando touched him, like he already knew how. The way Carlos let him, heart hammering, breath tight, his body answering before thought could catch up. The sheets had rustled beneath them, uneven and kicked down, and Lando had smiled against his throat like he’d been waiting — not just for that night, but for the right moment to show Carlos what it meant to be wanted like that.

The winter nights — thick jumpers and cheesy films, toes shoved under Carlos’ thigh on the sofa. Lando laughing so hard at something on the screen he’d buried his face in Carlos’ shoulder to get his breath back, his body warm and solid against Carlos’ side.

The Abu Dhabi hug, sudden and unrestrained, the press of Lando’s face into his neck as the crowd roared. And further still — the balcony in Baku, a drink in Carlos’ hand and Lando leaning on the rail beside him, city lights catching the edge of his hair, both of them quiet in that way that meant they were thinking the same thing but didn’t need to say it. And one warm night on the Algarve coast, the shutters open to the sea breeze, Lando sprawled bare-chested across the sheets, his laughter breaking off into a sigh as Carlos kissed down his stomach, the world outside fading until there was only the salt on his skin and the way he arched into Carlos’ mouth.

Carlos’ hand tightened on the edge of the counter until the tendons stood out, the knife set down blindly beside the chopping board. His chest felt too full for the air in the room. “Lando,” he whispered into the empty kitchen, like he was naming someone who had just walked in. The music kept playing. He stayed still, letting the weight of it settle, the fullness of knowing every piece, every moment. The gap year had closed in an instant, all of it slotting back into place like it had been waiting for permission.

The smell of garlic had started to turn. He shut off the hob and stood there, palms braced on the counter, until the heat bled from the metal into his skin. His heart was still unsteady when he moved to the sink, rinsing the knife slowly, as though even small motions might shake something loose again. He told himself he’d write it all down in the notebook — every detail, every fragment — but the truth was he didn’t want to break the seal on it just yet.

So he lingered instead, letting the quiet settle around him, breathing until the rhythm steadied and the edges of the moment dulled enough to be set aside. It stayed with him, though — an echo at the back of his mind, slipping into the silence between one task and the next.

And then as the week unfolded, it carried an odd mix focus and distraction. His physio work felt sharper, cleaner, his body a fraction more coordinated. But his mind kept catching on small things — the shape of a shadow on his sofa, the way his jacket still smelled faintly of a London winter, the click of his front door in the evening. They were nothing on their own, but together they made the space between him and Lando feel shorter, as if the absence had thinned.

By the time his February travel dates arrived, he had already decided. The trip to Grove for his seat fit and early sim work had been in the calendar for weeks, but the detour came to him as soon as the flight confirmation hit his inbox. Woking wasn’t close to Grove, but it wasn’t impossibly far either. He couldn’t bring himself to tell Lando over the phone; it was something that had to be said in person.

The night before, he typed the message standing at his kitchen counter. ‘Landing tomorrow. Can I see you?’ He didn’t expect an answer straight away, but the reply came ten minutes later.

‘Yeah. When and where?’

The following afternoon found him at Heathrow, his suitcase rolling steadily behind him, the air in the terminal sharp with cold drafts from the automatic doors. The drive down was lined with bare winter trees and wet verges, the sky the kind of pale grey that seemed permanent. By the time he reached Woking, the wind had picked up, and he ducked into a small café just off the high street, brushing rain from his jacket sleeve as he chose a table in the corner. The mug between his hands went from hot to warm while he waited, the steam thinning with each minute.

Lando arrived five minutes late, pushing the door open with a gust of cold air and shaking his hood back. His cheeks were pink from the wind, hair damp at the edges. “Sorry,” he said, unzipping his jacket. “Traffic was a nightmare.”

Carlos shook his head. “I’m the one who dropped this on you yesterday.”

“Still,” Lando said, tugging his gloves off and glancing at the mug. “You going to drink that or just use it to thaw your hands?”

Carlos took a small sip. “I wanted to tell you something.”

Lando’s eyes flicked up quickly, guarded but curious. “Alright.”

“I remember everything now,” Carlos said. No lead-in, no slow build — the words felt better without the extra weight.

Lando sat back a fraction, a slow smile starting in one corner of his mouth. “Everything?”

Carlos nodded once. “Everything I’d lost. You. Us. The season. The holidays. All of it.”

“That’s…” Lando paused, and the smile shifted, softer now. “That’s really good.”

“I wanted to say it in person,” Carlos continued, thumb running over the curve of the mug. “And to thank you. For everything you did when I couldn’t remember.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I do.” He met Lando’s eyes. “You were there every day. Even when I didn’t make it easy.”

“Wasn’t exactly easy for you either,” Lando said, his voice gentling.

Carlos hesitated. He could still feel the weight of those months without memory pressing faintly at the edges of him, and in contrast, the steady warmth of Lando across the table. It would have been so simple to let that closeness blur into something more, to lean on it, to reach for what they used to be. But simple wasn’t the same as right. He owed Lando more than impulse, more than habit.

He cleared his throat lightly, fingers tightening around the mug. “Lando… there’s something else.” He let the silence stretch, knowing the words mattered, needing to place them carefully. “I— I don’t know how to say it without it sounding—” He stopped, shook his head faintly, then tried again. “I care about you. More than I can explain. But… I don’t think we should start anything again.”

The smile faltered, though Lando didn’t look away. “I know.”

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Carlos said quietly. He meant it with every fibre of himself — that Lando had already given enough, more than enough, and Carlos had no wish to add to the weight he’d carried.

“You won’t,” Lando replied, though Carlos could hear the effort it cost to keep his tone even. “We’re still friends. That’s what matters.”

Relief and regret twined together in Carlos’ chest. He gave a small nod, letting the quiet settle between them before adding, almost tentative, “If we’re both in England before the season starts… maybe golf. Dinner.”

Lando’s grin returned, smaller but warmer, and it eased something tight in Carlos’ chest. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

*~*~*~*~*

The last days of February brought a shift in pace again. The weeks no longer blurred together in the way they had back in January. Grove was a change of air — colder, sharper, the kind that made the skin of his cheeks prickle walking from the car park to the main building. The Williams factory smelled faintly of rubber and warm metal, a scent that settled on his clothes by the end of the day. His schedule there was steady: sim runs to refine his seating position, meetings with engineers about the new chassis, long hours with the performance coach mapping out the season’s first few races. Evenings were quiet, the hotel room in Wantage too neat for his taste, the heating always a little too dry.

Lando’s world, two counties away in Woking, was its own sealed orbit. McLaren had their own push towards Bahrain — aero refinements, driver media days, endless meetings. They spoke through whatsapp most evenings, short notes about training sessions or the weather, sometimes a photo: a blurred shot of a grey dog from Lando’s walk, a picture of the biscuits Carlos found in the Grove canteen that tasted like the ones Lando used to keep in his cupboard.

When the first weekend they were both free came around, they met halfway — an early tee time at a course in the soft folds of the Oxfordshire countryside. The morning was crisp enough for their breath to show, the fairways striped pale under low sun. Lando was already at the range when Carlos arrived, leaning on his club, gloved hand flexing now and then to keep the warmth in.

“You’re late,” Lando said as Carlos came up, not looking annoyed in the slightest.

Carlos glanced at his watch. “By two minutes.”

“Two minutes is two practice swings.”

Carlos snorted and pulled on his own glove, the leather snug and cold. “You can have them. You’ll need the advantage.”

Lando’s grin was quick and easy, but there was that flicker in his eyes — the one that meant he was filing away the remark for later. They worked through a bucket in companionable rhythm, the sound of each strike carrying over the grass. Midway through, Carlos glanced over and caught Lando’s hands a fraction too tight on the club.

“You’re choking it,” Carlos said, resting the head of his own club against his shoe.

“I’m not,” Lando replied without looking up.

“You are,” Carlos countered, stepping over and shifting the club in Lando’s hands with a light twist of his fingers. The adjustment was minimal, but deliberate, his knuckles brushing over Lando’s glove before he stepped back. “Better.” Lando flexed his grip once, testing it, and gave a small huff that wasn’t quite disagreement.

They played through the morning, the banter steady but never sharp. By the last hole, Carlos was comfortably ahead, and Lando accused him of sandbagging last season just to make him feel good. The laughter carried them back to the car park, where they stood for a few minutes longer than necessary, leaning against their respective cars with the cold creeping in around their ankles, talking about nothing and everything before heading in opposite directions.

The next time they saw each other was in London — a dinner with mutual friends in a tucked-away restaurant where the lighting was soft and the tables close enough to feel the heat of conversation from the next one over. Carlos arrived first, shaking the rain from his coat, and found a seat at the far end of the long table. Lando came in with two others a little later, the door letting in a rush of damp air as they joined the group. From the moment he shrugged off his jacket, Carlos was aware of him — the easy way he slid into the noise, the way his laughter dipped just enough that Carlos could hear it even from halfway down the table.

The night moved in courses — shared plates, wine glasses that were never empty, the ebb and flow of voices rising to make a point before dropping into private asides. At one point, across the drift of conversation, Carlos looked up and found Lando watching him. Not a long stare, just enough to register — that faint, knowing curve at the corner of his mouth before he turned back to whoever was speaking beside him. The moment was gone as quickly as it came, but it sat with Carlos the rest of the evening, an echo that hummed under the chatter.

*~*~*~*~*

Their last meeting before the season start was quieter. Carlos had an afternoon free before another round of meetings at Grove, and Lando was passing nearby on his way back from a sponsor event. They picked a country pub a few miles out of town, the kind with crooked beams and stone fireplaces, a fire that smelled of oak and faintly of damp wool. The regulars didn’t look up when they came in, save for one older man at the bar who gave Carlos’ coat a nod of approval.

They took a corner table tucked under a window, the glass rippled with age. The winter light was thin but warm enough to glint off their pints, plates set down between them.

“You’re in a better mood,” Lando said after Carlos finished talking about a long debrief with his race engineer. He leaned back, stretching his legs out under the table so they nudged against Carlos’.

Carlos arched an eyebrow. “Because the car feels good. For once.”

“Dangerous thing to admit before Bahrain,” Lando said, mouth quirking.

Carlos made a show of rolling his eyes. “Don’t worry, I won’t jinx myself. I’ll let you keep the headlines.”

“As if I’d need your permission,” Lando shot back, taking a slow sip of his pint, his eyes glinting over the rim.

Carlos snorted. “There’s that humility you’re famous for.”

“World Champions don’t need humility,” Lando replied airily, then broke into a grin when Carlos kicked his shin lightly under the table. “Ow. Violence already.”

“Just keeping you grounded.” Carlos let himself smile, shaking his head. “Not easy, when your head’s this big.”

Lando leaned forward, lowering his voice as though conspiring. “Funny. You didn’t complain when it won me pole in Monaco.”

Carlos laughed, sharp and genuine, his hand curling around the glass. “Touché.”

The food arrived, and they ate without much ceremony, the kind of comfortable silence only years could build. When the plates were nearly cleared, Lando eyed the last biscuit on the plate. Carlos reached for it at the same time. Their hands brushed — not by accident, not really — and lingered a fraction too long before Carlos let him take it with a small, conceding wave.

“Chivalry lives,” Lando said around a mouthful, crumbs at the corner of his mouth.

Carlos shook his head, amused, and handed him a napkin.

The fire popped in the grate, a log shifting with a sigh of sparks. The kind of silence followed that wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly, but alive with too much underneath. Lando tipped back the last of his pint, set the glass down, and turned it idly between his palms.

“You’ve still got that bad habit,” Carlos said finally, nodding at the napkin Lando was twisting into sharp folds.

Lando smirked, faint, not looking up. “Better than biting my nails.”

“Debatable,” Carlos murmured.

That got him a glance, quick and sharp, like Lando couldn’t quite help checking the truth of him across the table. “You’d know,” he said, quieter now.

Carlos held the look a second too long, the air between them tightening. He broke first, shifting slightly back in his chair, fingers circling the rim of his glass. “Yeah. I’d know.”

For a while it was lighter again — testing schedules, media commitments, which physios were most ruthless about stretching. Carlos found himself laughing more than he’d expected, the kind of laughter that slipped out unguarded, leaving something warm in its wake. But it didn’t last. It never did.

Lando traced a finger along the rim of his glass, thoughtful. “It’s strange, sitting here with you.”

Carlos tilted his head. “Strange how?”

“Like nothing’s changed,” Lando said after a pause, a wry smile touching his mouth, “and like everything has.”

Carlos shifted in his seat, watching the fire spit sparks into the grate. “I don’t know what to say to that.”

“You don’t have to.” Lando’s voice was quiet, steady. “It’s just… nice. Talking like this again.”

Carlos let out a faint breath, a laugh that caught in his chest. “It was always easy.”

“That’s one thing I missed,” Lando admitted, his eyes catching Carlos’ across the table.

Carlos felt the words pull at something in him, taut and familiar. “Missed?” he asked, though he knew.

“The way we could talk about anything. Or nothing. Didn’t matter.” Lando’s smile softened, almost shy. “I didn’t realise how much until it was gone.”

Carlos dropped his gaze, letting it rest on the half-empty pint in front of him. The fire cracked behind them, heat brushing the side of his face, and still he felt cold somewhere deeper in his chest. It was unfair, how simply Lando could say something like that, how it slid under his skin without warning. He told himself not to read into it, not to follow the thread, but already his mind was tugging — back to quiet hotel rooms, late nights on the phone, laughter shared in corners no one else noticed.

He curled his fingers around the glass, holding it tighter than he needed to, as if it might keep him steady. It didn’t. What unsettled him most wasn’t the memories themselves but how natural it felt, here and now, to sit across from Lando like this, as though nothing had ever been broken. Too natural.

And yet he stayed where he was, forcing his breath even, pretending the warmth creeping through him was only from the fire.

Lando shifted in his chair, breaking the spell with a small, almost sheepish smile, as if he knew he’d said too much but wasn’t going to take it back. Carlos found himself answering it without meaning to, the corner of his mouth tugging up in return. The silence loosened, just enough for them to find lighter ground again.

The plates were cleared, though neither of them seemed ready to leave. The fire burned lower, shadows stretching long against the walls. Their talk drifted to softer things — the last time they’d played golf, a daft story about a sponsor dinner, plans they’d never actually follow through on. Carlos let it wash through him, all the while feeling the tug of the undertow, the gravity of what lay between the lines.

When they finally stood, chairs scraping faintly on the old wood floor, the cold outside hit sharp and immediate. Their breath rose in pale clouds as they stepped into the gravel car park. Lando hunched into his jacket, close enough that their shoulders brushed, neither pulling away.

“Feels strange,” Lando said, voice low. “The season starting again.”

“It always does,” Carlos replied, then, after a pause, “This year more than most.”

Lando nodded, scuffing at the gravel with the toe of his trainer. For a moment, he seemed like he might say something more, but instead he only looked up at Carlos, eyes searching in the dim light.

“Today was good,” he said finally. Simple, but full.

Carlos met his gaze, and the tug in his chest sharpened. “Yeah. It was.”

The space between them held steady, heavy with everything they weren’t letting slip. Carlos curled his hands tighter into his pockets, grounding himself against it, and stayed where he was.

*~*~*~*~*

The air in Sakhir was heavy with dust, the kind that clung to skin and turned the sky hazy even at night. The testing days had been relentless, lap after lap in the car until Carlos felt the vibration of the chassis still humming through his bones when he lay down at night. It was exhausting, yes, but it was also something else — a kind of relief he hadn’t realised he’d been holding out for, the simple fact of being back where he belonged, the machine alive under his hands again.

When his phone buzzed with Lando’s name, he hadn’t meant to answer. Yet ten minutes later, he was on the hotel balcony with two bottles from the minibar, their caps set aside on the table between them.

Lando leaned against the railing, curls damp from the shower, T-shirt soft with wear. They talked about tyres and fuel loads, about who’d been sandbagging and who hadn’t bothered to hide it, their words easy and familiar. But Carlos kept catching himself looking at him instead of listening — the way his shoulders rolled when he stretched, the way the lamplight picked out strands of hair gone almost golden.

When their arms brushed, casual in the narrow space, Carlos felt the contact like a spark. He told himself not to shift closer, and still he didn’t move away.

“You’re quiet,” Lando said eventually, glancing sideways.

Carlos forced a small shrug. “Just tired. Long days.”

It was true, but not the whole truth. The rest sat in the back of his throat — the fact that it felt too easy, standing there with Lando under the night sky, the ache that came with noticing every detail of him as if no time had passed at all. He didn’t say it. He only tipped his bottle against Lando’s in a soft clink and drank.

When they said goodnight, Carlos lingered on the balcony longer than he meant to, the desert air clinging to his skin. The hum of the car still lived in his body, but it was the echo of Lando’s laugh he couldn’t shake.

By the time Carlos slipped free of the last interview, the sun was already low, glare caught in the glass walls of the paddock buildings. His head was buzzing from the questions — about the crash, about fear, about whether he felt the same man stepping back into the car. He’d answered them all, but each one left a scrape somewhere raw inside him.

He ducked into the hospitality unit, glad for the hush of it, and found Lando already there, sprawled on the sofa with his shoes kicked off and a bottle of water dangling from one hand.

“Survived?” Lando asked, voice lazy but his eyes sharp.

“Barely.” Carlos sank into the armchair opposite, loosening the collar of his shirt. “They all want the same answer, just dressed different.”

“You gave it.” Lando tipped his head back, curls falling into his eyes. “Looked steady. Like always.”

Carlos let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Didn’t feel like always.”

For a moment they were quiet, the muted thrum of the paddock outside pressing faint against the glass. Lando rolled the bottle between his palms, the plastic crinkling, and Carlos found his gaze drawn to the movement. To the long lines of Lando’s fingers, the veins shifting under his skin. Ridiculous, to notice something like that now, but he couldn’t seem to stop.

“You’re staring,” Lando said without opening his eyes.

Carlos blinked, caught. “No.”

Lando cracked one eye open, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Liar.”

Heat prickled at the back of Carlos’ neck. He looked away, fixing on some meaningless point beyond the window, but the damage was done — the tug in his stomach sharp, immediate.

When Lando sat forward a moment later, elbows on his knees, the air seemed to thicken between them. “First race back. You ready?”

Carlos swallowed, his throat dry. “I think so.”

“You don’t sound sure.”

“I am.” He hesitated, then added more quietly, “Especially now.”

The words hung there, heavier than he meant, but he didn’t take them back.

Lando held his gaze, and for the briefest moment it felt like the room tilted — just them, the narrow space between, charged enough that Carlos’ fingers twitched against the armrest with the urge to close it. He didn’t move.

A beat later, Lando leaned back again, breaking the moment with an easy shrug. “Good. Because I’m not going to go easy on you.”

Carlos huffed, forcing a smile. “Wouldn’t expect you to.”

But long after they left the unit together, walking side by side into the thick evening air, it wasn’t the banter that stayed with Carlos. It was the weight of that gaze, the warmth of it in his chest, the sudden certainty that he wasn’t just remembering what they’d had — he was already wanting it again.

That want didn’t fade with the week. It threaded itself into the days of preparation, into the background hum of every briefing and every lap of free practice. By Sunday, as he stood waiting near the paddock gates for the driver parade to begin, it pressed sharp enough that he couldn’t quite ignore it anymore.

The sun was relentless, pressing against the tarmac, caught in the shimmer of heat haze. Drivers milled in clusters, but Carlos stayed slightly apart, eyes half-lidded behind his sunglasses. He felt him before he saw him — the light press of a shoulder at his, the faintest touch of fingers at the curve of his back as Lando slipped into place beside him. Gone in a second, but Carlos’ skin burned with it.

“You’re wound tight,” Lando said, his voice pitched low, meant for no one else.

Carlos kept his gaze forward, lips quirking without humour. “That obvious?”

“Only if you know what to look for.” The edge of Lando’s arm brushed his again, a ghost of contact. Too deliberate to be chance.

Carlos exhaled slowly, heat prickling under his collar. “And you know?”

Lando’s grin flickered, quick and intimate. “Always.”

The word landed heavy, pulling Carlos’ chest tight. He shifted slightly, meaning to make space, but it only brought him closer — Lando’s scent, clean soap cut with the sharpness of sun-warmed skin, seeping into his breath. His fingers twitched against his thigh with the ache to close that inch, to feel the drag of knuckles against knuckles, the slip of skin.

Around them, officials called instructions, drivers drifted into place, but Carlos barely heard it. Every nerve in his body was tuned to the nearness at his side — the rise and fall of Lando’s breathing, the way his mouth caught briefly at the corner when he bit down on a smile.

Carlos forced himself to look ahead, voice low. “Careful.”

Lando tilted his head just enough that Carlos could feel the whisper of his breath against his temple when he answered. “Always careful.”

It wasn’t true. Not then, not ever. And Carlos felt it, raw and sharp, pooling in his stomach, tightening low in his body. The parade was about to begin, the world was watching — and still all he could think of was how close they were to tipping over the edge.

*~*~*~*~*

Race day had been relentless in that way the first race of the year always was — a hundred moving parts, every conversation tinged with nerves disguised as strategy. Williams had been sharp all weekend, the car responsive in ways that hinted at possibilities they’d only dared say aloud in private briefings.

When the lights went out, it was instinct and muscle memory, the first laps spent feeling the grip, reading the tyres, watching the gaps shift and tighten. Somewhere in the middle stint, the race began to shape itself: clean air ahead, pressure steady behind. By the chequered flag, the numbers told the story he’d been chasing all day — P3, his first podium with Williams.

In parc fermé the world blurred into heat haze and shouts, team kit in his peripheral vision, his engineer’s voice in his ear telling him it was deserved. He pulled off his helmet and took the applause with a smile, the energy buzzing under his skin. But when he looked across the paddock towards the McLaren garage, it caught him — a flash of papaya, and Lando in the middle of it, one hand raised in a small, unmistakable salute.

It was enough to pull him sideways into another time. Abu Dhabi 2025 — the crush of parc fermé after Lando’s win, the taste of heat and rubber in the air, the way Lando had buried his face into Carlos’ neck with a laugh that shook them both. He felt it now as if the heat in Melbourne were the same, as if the noise were echoing from that night. His chest tightened, not with loss, but with the sharpness of recognition.

The podium ceremony was a blur of champagne spray and clapping hands. He smiled for the cameras, held the trophy high, shook the right hands in the right order. But beneath it all, there was a steady undercurrent: this isn’t finished until I’ve told him.

Evening came with the team dinner, long tables set under strings of warm lights, glasses of wine and plates passed from hand to hand. Carlos laughed easily, toasted the mechanics, replayed key laps when asked. The pride in the room was tangible — this was a good start, better than they’d dared expect. Yet every time his eyes caught the empty space where Lando might have been, the edges of the night softened. The joy was full, but not complete.

When dessert plates were cleared and conversation turned to travel plans for Bahrain, he slipped away. It was easy — a quiet word to the team principal, a hand on a shoulder, a smile that said he needed air. The Melbourne night was warm, the city humming in the distance as he crossed to the hotel where the McLaren drivers were staying. The carpeted corridors muted his steps, the knock on Lando’s door sounding louder than he meant it to.

The knock landed louder than he’d intended, the sound swallowed quickly by the thick carpeted corridor. For a moment, Carlos considered walking away. He could still tell himself he’d only been passing by, that it hadn’t meant anything. But then the handle turned, and the door opened.

Lando stood there, hair still damp from the shower, T-shirt hanging loose, one sock half-pulled up his ankle. His eyes widened slightly, surprise flickering before it settled into something more guarded. Carlos saw it — the flicker — and felt an ache of recognition. This was still the same face that used to light up just because he’d walked into the room.

“Carlos.” Just his name — nothing added.

Carlos felt his mouth pull into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Can I come in?”

A pause, then a small nod. “Yeah. Sure.”

The room was dim, lit only by the standing lamp near the bed. Curtains drawn, the hum of the air conditioning steady in the background. A faint scent of soap and shampoo lingered in the air, curling into Carlos’ senses before he could stop it. He stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him, the soft sound sealing them in together.

“How was dinner?” Lando asked, leaning back against the desk, his arms loosely crossed.

“It was… good,” Carlos said, the word coming slower than intended. “The team is happy. Very happy.” He let out a faint breath, gaze dropping to the carpet. “I should be happy too.”

Lando tilted his head, studying him with that way he had — quiet, measured, unblinking. “You don’t look unhappy.”

“I’m not,” Carlos said carefully. “But—” He paused, the thought resisting easy translation into words. “It didn’t feel… complete. Not without you.”

Lando’s arms folded tighter, his fingers tapping once against his sleeve. “You told me — twice — that you didn’t want to do this again. That it was too much.”

Carlos nodded once, eyes steady. “I did. And I meant it then. I was—” His hand lifted, fingers turning in the air, searching for the right shape of the memory. “—not ready. My head was full of… noise. Memories, feelings, all mixed. I thought if I kept my life simple, it would be easier.”

“Was it?” Lando’s voice was quiet, but it carried a precision that left nowhere to hide.

Carlos let out something between a sigh and a huff of laughter. “No. It was emptier.”

Silence stretched between them, not heavy exactly, but taut. Carlos didn’t rush to fill it. He wanted Lando to see this wasn’t some impulse, wasn’t a moment to be talked away.

“Now I remember everything,” he said, his voice low but certain. “You. Us. All of it. The good, the bad. And I can’t pretend I don’t want it.”

Lando’s arms loosened, his weight shifting minutely off the desk, though he stayed where he was. “Your dad—”

“I know.” Carlos’ voice was firmer now, but still soft. “I thought about it. About how he reacted. It was not anger, Lando — it was… fear. Habit. But he still cares for you, even if he hides it. And I can’t let his old ideas decide for me. Not anymore.”

A flicker crossed Lando’s face — the kind of almost-smile that came from hearing something he wanted to believe. “You’re sure?”

Carlos stepped in, closing the space between them until the air between them felt charged, almost tangible. His hand brushed Lando’s forearm, slow and deliberate, a test of boundaries that didn’t seem to exist anymore. “I’m sure. I am in love with you. And I am tired of pretending otherwise.”

The air shifted. The tension didn’t break; it softened, like fabric loosening under warm water. Lando’s shoulders eased, his breath catching just enough for Carlos to notice.

When Carlos lifted his hand to Lando’s jaw, the skin warm under his palm, Lando didn’t pull away. The first kiss was slow, a careful press of mouths as though they were relearning each other’s shape. The second was deeper, Lando’s fingers curling into the front of Carlos’ shirt, pulling him closer until their chests met.

Carlos’ hand slid to the back of Lando’s neck, thumb brushing damp hair, guiding him gently towards the bed. Their movements were unhurried — shirts pulled away without fumbling, the soft rustle of fabric falling to the floor. Skin touched skin, heat meeting heat, each contact grounding Carlos in a way that nothing else had since he’d woken in that hospital room.

Lando lay back against the pillows, looking up at him with a steadiness that felt like trust. The light caught the faint rise and fall of his chest, the flush across his cheekbones.

“Missed this,” Lando murmured, the words quiet but breaking slightly.

“Me too,” Carlos said, his accent thick around the vowels, his hands smoothing over Lando’s ribs with a touch that was more reverent than possessive. He leaned down, pressing a slow kiss to the corner of Lando’s mouth, then another to the curve of his jaw, tasting the salt of his skin, breathing him in like he’d been starved without realising it.

They didn’t rush. Every shift of weight, every kiss and sigh, unfolded with the patience of something relearned rather than taken. Lando’s fingers traced idle lines at Carlos’ nape, curling in his hair, grounding him. The warmth of it pulled at Carlos in ways he couldn’t contain — not just desire but the aching swell of love, of recognition. He wanted to memorise it all over again: the sound of Lando’s laughter when their noses bumped, the sharp inhale when Carlos brushed his lips lower to his throat, the way his body arched without hesitation.

The mattress dipped and shifted beneath them, the sheets gathered in folds around their tangled legs. It should have been clumsy — too many angles, too much heat — but it wasn’t. It was simple, instinctive, as though their bodies had been waiting for this reunion, fitting together with a certainty Carlos no longer had the strength to deny.

The outside world fell away. No cameras, no questions, no weight of expectation — just the quiet rhythm of touch, the soft catch of breath, the low murmur of a name spoken between kisses. Carlos felt the tension bleed out of him with every laugh that turned to a sigh, every glance that lingered too long, every place where they fit together without effort.

When they finally stilled, it wasn’t from distance but from closeness. Foreheads rested together, the sound of their breathing slow and uneven in the low-lit room. Carlos kept his hand spread wide over Lando’s chest, feeling the heartbeat under his palm, steady and unguarded.

His eyes closed, not to shut anything out but to hold it in — the warmth, the trust, the quiet intimacy of being here again. Whatever came next, this was theirs. This had always been theirs.

*~*~*~*~*

Epilogue

The apartment was quiet, save for the faint hum from the kitchen. Carlos had been unpacking when he heard the door open, the muted thump of trainers against the tile. He didn’t need to turn to know whose they were — black with a scuffed white sole, carelessly dropped just to the side of the shoe rack.

It had been months since he’d seen them there. Months since he’d let himself think about the simple domesticity of that sight. Now it made something in his chest loosen.

“Hey,” Lando’s voice came from the doorway, casual but warm.

Carlos turned, finding him framed in the light from the hall, hair mussed from the wind outside. “You’re early.”

“Flight was good,” Lando said with a shrug, stepping inside. “Thought I’d surprise you.”

They ended up in the kitchen, Lando leaning against the counter as Carlos reached for two glasses. The bottle of wine on the counter was already open, breathing in the still air. Lando watched as Carlos poured, his expression faintly amused.

“You’re the only person who’s ever managed to make me like this stuff,” Lando said, taking the glass when Carlos offered it.

“I told you it was only because you had been drinking the wrong wines,” Carlos replied, the corner of his mouth lifting.

They drank slowly, the conversation meandering — travel, the next race, the fact that Carlos still hadn’t fixed the dripping tap in the bathroom. It wasn’t anything extraordinary, but it was steady, and it was theirs.

When Carlos reached for his glass again, his hand brushed against Lando’s on the counter. He didn’t pull back. Instead, his fingers curled around Lando’s, thumb pressing lightly against his knuckle. Lando glanced down at their joined hands, then back up, a small smile touching his mouth.

Carlos didn’t let go. Not while they stood there in the kitchen, not while they finished the wine, not even when they moved to the sofa. The evening stretched around them, unhurried, the weight of what they’d lost and found again settling into something quieter.

For Carlos, it felt like a circle closing — the space that had been empty for too long now filled again, simply, completely.

*~*~*~*~*

The End