We’d been together for a year, and I’d met nearly everyone in her life—her uni mates, her childhood friends, even her gran who lived two hours outside the city and still made the best tea I’ve ever had. But when it came to my side of the picture—my family—she always stopped just short.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want to meet them. She did. She just… couldn’t. There was this fear she carried, like some invisible weight. Once, over late-night takeout and reruns of Friends, she told me about an ex who straight-up said, “You’re not the kind of girl my parents would like.” That stuck with her. It made her think she wasn’t enough—like meeting the parents was something reserved for someone better.

It broke my heart a little every time she said no to joining me in the UK, or every time she found a reason to miss a race where Mum and Dad would be. She didn’t see what I saw in her. She didn’t realize she was already family to me.

This time, though, I had a plan.

We were in Monaco for the Grand Prix weekend, and she was staying with me, like she usually did during European races. She came with me to the paddock on Friday, watched free practice from the McLaren hospitality suite, made friends with half the garage crew again—typical her, charming without even trying.

What she didn’t know was that my parents had flown in that morning and were already making themselves at home in my flat.

After the second free practice, when the debriefs and interviews were finally over, I grabbed her hand and said, “Let’s just head back. Chill night in?”

She smiled. “You read my mind.”

We took the short walk back, my cap pulled low and her tucked in beside me, humming some song under her breath. I unlocked the door and let her go in first.

The lights in the hallway were on.

“Did we leave the lights on?” she asked, giving me a little side-eye as she kicked off her shoes. “Tomorrow I’m triple-checking everything before we leave. I swear I’m going to give myself a heart attack one day.”

I smirked but said nothing. She walked ahead, turning into the living room—and stopped dead.

I followed right behind her.

There, sitting on the sofa with matching warm smiles and glasses of wine in hand, were my mum and dad.

“Hello, sweetheart,” Mum said, standing up.

My girl stood frozen. “Oh. Um. Good evening,” she said stiffly, voice a pitch too high. I could see the panic behind her eyes, the way she locked up like she’d forgotten how to breathe.

Mum came to me first, pulling me into a tight hug and planting a kiss on my cheek. “My boy,” she whispered. Then she turned to her.

“And you,” she said warmly, stepping forward, arms already opening. “None of that ‘good evening’ nonsense. Come here, darling.”

She hugged her like she’d already done it a hundred times. No hesitation, no awkwardness—just love. My dad followed with a friendly, “Hi there. It’s great to finally meet you,” giving her a firm handshake that melted quickly into a one-armed hug.

“I—hi. I didn’t know you were…” She looked at me, eyes wide, cheeks a soft pink.

“They just landed this morning,” I said, trying to hide the smile threatening to break across my face.

“Well,” Mum clapped her hands together. “I didn’t spend all day cooking just for it to go cold. You two—kitchen, now. I’ve made dinner, and I’ve been dying for you to get home.”

She turned and marched off like a general with a mission. I reached for {{user}}’s hand and laced our fingers together.

As we walked after my mum, I leaned closer and whispered, “I heard you like surprises.”

She looked up at me, still dazed, still blushing—but smiling.

“Lando,” she whispered, “I’m going to kill you.”

“Not before dessert,” I grinned.