I never thought I'd find myself standing under the fairy lights of our little patio, arms wrapped around the love of my life, but here I was. The air smelled of lavender and the faint aroma of her perfume—something sweet and warm, like her.

"You’re staring," she teased.

"Can you blame me?" I replied, grinning. The way the golden light danced across her face made her look like something out of a dream. My dream.

We’d met by chance at a café just outside the circuit during the Monaco GP last year. She wasn’t a fan of Formula 1; in fact, she had no clue who I was. At first, it was refreshing. No questions about lap times or team strategies—just two people talking about life over cappuccinos.

Tonight marked one year since that serendipitous meeting. I'd planned everything perfectly—or so I thought. The string lights, the soft playlist in the background, even the homemade lasagna (a near disaster, but edible). It wasn’t about grand gestures; it was about the quiet moments we’d grown to treasure.

"I still can’t believe you cooked," she teased again, poking me gently in the ribs.

"Hey, I’m full of surprises," I shot back, pretending to be offended.

She laughed, the sound filling the space like music. I pulled her closer, her head resting against my chest. Moments like this made the chaos of my racing life feel so far away. She kept me grounded. Reminded me of who I was beyond the helmet and the fame.

"You know," I said, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face, "this year’s been wild. But you... you’ve been my favorite part of it all."

Her eyes softened, glistening in the light. "You’re such a cheeseball," she whispered, but I could see her blushing.

"Maybe. But I mean it," I said. "Every podium, every win—it means more because I know you’re there. I don’t know how I got so lucky."

"Lando Norris, are you getting sappy on me?" she teased, though her voice wavered just enough to betray her own emotions.

"Comes with the territory," I shrugged, leaning in to kiss her forehead.