The thing about secret relationships, or secret almost relationships, was that they rarely ended because of something dramatic. Nobody planned to ruin months of carefulness. It happened through stupid things. Tiny things. A touch held too long. A look someone noticed. Habits becoming evidence. You and Lando had spent months getting good at hiding. Late-night flights ending in the same city. Hotel rooms booked under different names. Calls after races stretching until sunrise. Neither of you putting labels on whatever this was because labels made things real, and real things could break. So instead, you stayed somewhere in between. Not friends. Not together. Just... yours.