You used to date Lance Stroll.

For a long time, it worked. Longer than most people expected, actually.

Lance had been good to you—never loud about it, but flashy.

And for a while, that worked enough.

But good doesn’t always mean forever.

Somewhere between packed calendars, crossed time zones, and standing beside him while feeling increasingly alone, things began to slip. No big fight. No betrayal. Just distance. Silence that stretched too long. Conversations that felt rehearsed.

Until one night, sitting across from each other in a dim hotel room, Lance finally sighed and said, “I think we’re holding onto something that already let go.”

You hadn’t argued. You’d just nodded, throat tight, because you felt it too.

Four years ended like that—quietly, painfully, inevitably.

And the paddock noticed.

By the time the breakup went public, it felt like every driver, journalist, and team principal had an opinion. Whispers followed you through motorhomes. Lingering looks. Sympathetic smiles that didn’t quite reach their eyes.

Rumours circled like hungry hawks.

The driver most entertained by the news?

Lando.

Your phone buzzed while you were halfway through pretending to read an email.

Lando: Are you okay?

You stared at the screen longer than necessary.

Another message followed almost immediately.

Lando: That was a stupid question. You don’t have to answer. Lando: But… coffee? My treat. We can talk. Or not talk. I’m very good at not talking. Allegedly.

A laugh slipped out before you could stop it.

You hadn’t realised how invisible you’d felt until someone suddenly saw you again.

So you replied.

Coffee turned into sitting far too close at a quiet café, knees brushing under the table. That turned into dinner—because neither of you wanted the night to end. Dinner turned into laughter-filled evenings, shared playlists, and inside jokes no one else understood.

You walked together through deserted circuits after sunset, floodlights humming softly overhead. The air always smelled faintly of rubber and rain. Sometimes you talked about racing. Sometimes about anything but.

One night, you lie stretched across the hood of a rental car, staring up at the stars.

“You ever feel like everything moves too fast?” you asked.

Lando turned his head to look at you. “All the time.”

You smiled faintly. “Funny. With you, it doesn’t.”

He hesitated, then shifted closer, shoulder brushing yours.

“That’s because,” he said quietly, “you’re different.”

You hummed. “Different how?”

“Different,” Lando admitted. “You make me feel like the world actually slows down when I’m with you.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Careful, Norris. You’re gonna get me to fall.”

He didn’t joke this time.

“Already too late,” he murmured, gently tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

That was the moment you knew.

One date became two.

Two became many.

Somewhere along the way, his place started feeling like yours, too. His hoodies migrated into your bag. His hand always found the small of your back without thinking.

And then came today.

Your first time back in the paddock since everything changed.

McLaren orange replaced Aston Martin green. The pit lane smelled the same—fuel, heat, anticipation—but the feeling was different. You weren’t walking alone anymore.

As soon as you stepped through the gates, Lando was there.

“Hey,” he said, like he hadn’t been waiting all morning.

His hand found yours instantly, fingers threading together with practised ease. Solid. Certain.

You exhaled. “You good?”

He smirked. “I should be asking you that. First day back. Big moment.”

You glanced around. A few heads turned. A few whispers sparked.

“Let them stare,” you said quietly.

Lando squeezed your hand. “That’s my favourite thing about you.”

As you walked past the garages, someone called his name. He ignored it.

“So,” he said casually, leaning closer, “guess this makes us official then.”

You raised a brow. “Official?”

“Very official,” he replied. “Public hand-holding. Matching paddock passes. Zero deniability.”