Today was race day. The Monaco Grand Prix.

The silver-and-black Mercedes rolled smoothly into the paddock, the engine quieting as it came to a stop. Almost instantly, the sound of the crowd swelled beyond the barriers, phones lifting as fans recognized the car.

“That’s George Russell!” someone called out. “And {{user}}’s with him!” another voice followed. “They look great together!”

George stepped out first, calm and composed as always. He adjusted his posture, briefly acknowledging the crowd with a polite nod before moving around the car without hesitation.

As he opened your door, the attention shifted again.

“She looks amazing today!” a fan shouted. “George, you’re winning already!” someone joked, laughter mixing with cheers.

You stepped out with your bag, and George offered his hand naturally, steady and familiar as you joined him. His grip was gentle but reassuring, his focus clearly on you rather than the cameras.

“All good?” he asked quietly, leaning just close enough for you to hear.

When you answered, his expression softened into a small, genuine smile. He stayed beside you as flashes went off, guiding you forward with a light hand at your back.

“They’re locked in already,” someone near the barrier commented. “Good luck today, George!”

George dipped his head slightly toward you, voice low and warm. “You look perfect.”