You’re lying on the big bed in your villa in Ibiza. The window is open, the warm sound of the waves drifting in from somewhere far away.

Your phone is in your hand, the screen glowing in the dim light of the room.

Lando is in the bathroom, the sound of the shower filling the silence.

Your thumb scrolls over the screen and the pictures are everywhere. You at the beach, laughing, close, too close, for some.

A paparazzi managed to capture exactly those moments.

One picture of Lando’s hand resting on your back, under your dress, while he presses a kiss to your cheek.

Another where he’s lifting you into his arms, holding you tight, your arms looped around his neck.

One where his face is buried against your neck, followed by the one of his forehead resting against your cheek as he smiles.

And finally, the last one. Your arms around his shoulders, his around your lower back, laughing with his camera in his hand.

The comments below pierce you immediately.

user0416 : They’ve never said it officially, but come on…this is love. user3355 : Lando finally looks happy, just leave him be. Why do people even need to hate on her? user1655 : So sweet that they’re finally on photos together! user0481 : I ship them. You can all say what you want.

But then…the not so kind ones.

user0414 : PR, PR, PR. That’s all I see. user1031 : She clings to him like a fan. Embarrassing. user0304 : He could have so much better than her. user8138 : He's not even interested in her. The way he walked meters infront of her in the pictures of the Hungary GP.

You feel your teeth tugging at your lower lip before you even realize it and tears burn in your eyes.

Your stomach twists, the familiar wave of insecurity crawling up the way it always does when you read too many comments.

The bathroom door opens, the soft scent of his shower gel drifting into the room.

Lando steps out, a towel slung loosely around his hips, his hair dripping wet.

The second he sees your expression, the way you biting at your lip, his eyes narrow slightly.

“Hey…” He says softly, moving to the bed.

He takes the phone gently from your hand. A brief glance at the screen, a sigh and then he sets it aside.

He sits next to you, lifting your chin so you’re forced to look at him. “Don’t do that. You know I hate it when you bite your lip like that." He murmurs.

His thumb trace lightly over your lip, as if to erase the nervous habit. “You only do that when you’re overthinking. And you don’t need to.”

Your breath trembles as it leaves you. “It’s just…they keep saying it’s PR. That you…that you not really want me.”

His eyes soften, though his jaw tightens for a moment before he shakes his head slowly. “They can say whatever they want. I’m here. With you. That’s what matters. Hungary. Do you remember?”

Of course you do.

Three whole days by his side. Not behind him, not standing off to the side, but right next to him.

For the very first time.

At least at a Grand Prix.

And after the race, after that incredible victory, he kissed you.

Not quick, not secret, an unapologetic kiss, right in front of everyone.

Proud.

Real.

You nod, heart pounding faster.

“That wasn’t a PR move." He says, voice calm but serious. “That was me. I wanted everyone to see. I wanted you to see.”

His hand brushes over your cheek. “And now? Here…Ibiza, our friends, us. I don’t want you wasting a single thought on those comments. I’m with you. Always. This was never some PR plan.”

Before you can reply, he leans in and kisses you.

Not like in Hungary, not in front of thousands of eyes, but quietly, tenderly, just for you.

Then he pulls away and takes you're face into his hands.

"I love you. And nothing, nothing, is gonna change that! My Family loves you. And that's all that matters! You understand me?"