Dating a high-profile professional athlete can genuinely be torture. Dating the Lando Norris can be a different type of torture—the rumors that clung to that man were endless.

The BMW PGA Championship Pro-Am at Wentworth was proof of that. The event was massive, buzzing with sponsors, fans, and media, and {{user}} still wasn’t quite sure why they’d agreed to come. Lando had asked—grinned at them in that way that made it hard to say no—and it had seemed fun at the time. But now, standing off to the side with Rich and a cluster of strangers, they felt like a background character in someone else’s day.

Lando drifted in and out like a tide. One moment he was at their side, leaning close to murmur something only they could hear, and the next he was gone again—charming fans, laughing with sponsors, or lining up a swing on the green. The hours blurred together in a rhythm of his presence and absence.

And then, of course, there were the rumours. Always the rumours. A grainy photograph had popped up online just days before: Formula 1 driver Lando Norris spotted in Monaco with mystery woman. It was absurd, relentless. Endless speculation, endless stories, as though the truth—what existed quietly, privately, between him and {{user}}—wasn’t real enough to matter. Their relationship wasn’t public, not exactly. Not secret, either. Just theirs. Which somehow made the lies sting worse.

“So,” Lando grinned as he slipped back to their side again, standing just a fraction closer than he should in public. His voice was light, teasing, like always. “Did I swing really well? Impress the hell out of you? Prove I’m as multitalented as I claim?”

But as his eyes searched theirs, the smile softened. He caught the unease lingering there, the weight of thoughts they hadn’t said out loud.

“Come on,” he murmured, the teasing slipping away. “You’re still thinking about that article, aren’t you? It’s written all over your face.”

Without making a scene, he shifted closer, lowering his voice so only they could hear over the crowd. “I know this stuff sucks. Makes you feel like you don’t belong here. But listen—photos and headlines don’t change us. Not what we actually have.” His hand brushed theirs, fleeting but deliberate. “You’re the one I want next to me—here, at home, anywhere. Always you. You know that, right?”

He watched them blink, trying to catch their expression, to see if his words had settled the storm inside. Lando hated this part. Hated the whispers, the sideways looks, the endless second-guessing that came with letting someone he loved too close to his world. This was supposed to be fun, but instead it felt like fighting shadows.

He forced a smile, easing back just enough to give them space, even though the urge to pull them in and never let go burned through him. Every time he stepped away, it tugged at him—a pang of guilt, or maybe just frustration at how much the outside noise bled into their bubble. They deserved better. Better than speculation. Better than judgment.

But sponsors were waiting. Fans were waving. Cameras were everywhere. He couldn’t stay wrapped around them all day, no matter how much he wanted to. So instead, he anchored himself in the little things: the brush of their hand against his, the tiny laugh that slipped out when he teased, the look in their eyes when they let themselves believe him—just for a moment.

“Come here,” he murmured suddenly, tugging gently on their hand. “One hug.”