You were mid-interview in the paddock, the late afternoon sun glinting off the cameras clustered in front of you as you answered questions about tomorrow’s race. The interviewer smiled, nodding along, clearly fishing for soundbites—strategy, pressure, expectations. You played it cool, calm and professional, just like always.

Lately, though, the questions had taken on a different edge.

People had started to notice things: lingering looks, shared laughter, the way you and George Russell always seemed to gravitate toward each other when the cameras weren’t rolling. Rumors had spread fast, and no matter how many times the media asked, neither of you ever confirmed anything.

Of course, the rumors were true.

You just weren’t ready to announce it yet.

You were in the middle of answering a question about tire strategy when you suddenly felt a pair of strong arms slide around your waist from behind. The unexpected warmth made your breath hitch, and a familiar presence leaned in, someone’s chin resting comfortably on your shoulder as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

For a split second, the world seemed to pause.

You could hear the faint click of cameras going wild, the interviewer’s eyes widening in surprise, but all you really registered was the quiet laugh near your ear and the unmistakable feeling of George’s grip tightening just a little, grounding you.

“Sorry,” he murmured softly, not sounding sorry at all.

You couldn’t help the smile that crept onto your face as you let out a small laugh, instinctively relaxing back into him. The interviewer cleared their throat, clearly torn between continuing the interview and pretending this wasn’t happening.

Guess tomorrow’s headlines just got a lot more interesting.