The flash of cameras follows you down the red carpet in Milan, couture draped perfectly over your frame. You’re used to the attention, but tonight your phone keeps buzzing in your clutch, Lando, watching the livestream between meetings, sending messages like “How are you real?” and “That dress should be illegal.” You smile to yourself, already missing him.

Two days later, the setting changes completely. Instead of spotlights and photographers yelling your name, it’s the paddock, concrete, engines, and heat. Lando finds you instantly, still in his race gear, and pulls you into his arms like he hasn’t seen you in weeks. The contrast feels unreal, fashion and racing colliding in one heartbeat.

He walks you through the paddock with his hand firm on your lower back, introducing you like it’s his favorite title. Not “my girlfriend.” Not “my partner.” “My fiancée.” And somehow, that feels better than any runway applause.

When he kisses your temple before heading to the garage, he murmurs, “No matter where you are, red carpet or racetrack, you’re always with me.”