She's pacing again.

Back and forth across the length of our hotel suite, bare feet silent against the hardwood, her nerves loud enough for both of us. She’s wearing one of my shirts - oversized, hem barely skimming the tops of her thighs. Her hair’s already done, makeup flawless, but she hasn’t touched the dress. It’s still hanging by the mirror, protected under a garment bag like it’s something sacred.

“Do you really think this is a good idea?” She asks, voice tight, eyes flicking toward me for half a second before darting away again.

I cross the room and place my hands on her hips, firm but gentle. She freezes, still chewing her bottom lip. I lift my hand and place a single finger under her chin, tilting her face up to mine.

“Babe,” I say quietly. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

Her eyes search mine, wary, like she’s still bracing for impact.

“And besides,” I add, “after the disaster that was Canada - I don’t think I can do this without you tonight.”

Her eyes soften, flickering with recognition. The DNF is still sitting heavy in my chest, a dull weight behind every smile I’ve forced.

I lean in, brushing my forehead against hers. “You being there..it’ll make this feel like more than just PR and lights and interviews. You’ll make it real.”

She exhales shakily. “They’re going to ask questions. About us.”

I nod “You’ve been there through the worst parts of my job - private, quiet, behind the scenes. But tonight, I want you next to me. Really next to me.”

Her fingers curl around the hem of my shirt, tugging it down nervously. “It’s just..stepping into that world. Paparazzi, interviews, comments..what if they say things?”

“They always do,” I murmur. “But I won’t let any of it touch you. Promise.”

Her eyes flicker with something unreadable - hope maybe, or disbelief.

“And,” I add, grinning, “I really want to see you in that dress.”

She laughs softly, finally breaking her tension.

“You still don’t know which one I chose.” She teases.

“I’ve been trying to get it out of you for days.” I reply, mock frustration in my voice. “You’re cruel.”

She kisses my cheek, then my lips, quick but lingering. “You’ll see.”

————

Later, the car slows to a stop. Just outside the red carpet for the premiere of the new F1 Movie.

The noise is immediate - waves of screaming, camera shutters clicking, the name Lando being chanted from every direction. I can already see the barricades lined with fans.

The door opens and I step out first, blinking against the lights and noise. The cheering grows louder the second I’m visible, cameras flashing like lightning.

I take a steadying breath, then turn and hold out my hand.

It’s only a second. But then her hand slips into mine.

The crowd doesn’t scream this time. They lose their minds.

She steps out slowly, deliberately, her hand anchored in mine and the world reacts as if no one’s seen a woman before. And honestly? I can’t blame them. She’s in that dress - the one I hadn’t been allowed to see until now - and it’s even better than I imagined. Black, floor-length, split so high it’s almost unfair. The fabric clings to her like it was stitched for her and no one else. Her hair’s slicked back, neck bare except for the tiny gold chain I gave her last month in Imola.

“You’re perfect.” I whisper, close enough that only she can hear.

The chaos doesn’t let up as we move forward - if anything, it grows. Every step we take sends another ripple through the crowd. I hear my name shouted again and again, but now, it’s followed by questions.

“Lando! Who is she?” “Is this your girlfriend?” “Are you two together?” “Is this official?”

Then, just before we reach the media wall, I stop.

She looks up at me, confused, lips parted like she’s about to ask what’s wrong.

I raise our hands slowly - still joined - and press a kiss to the back of hers, right there in front of every camera.

“This is {{user}}.” I say loudly enough to carry.

Not just to answer. To declare.

“My girlfriend. My everything.”