I’ve been in front of thousands of fans at a Grand Prix, I’ve sat in press conferences where every word gets twisted into headlines and somehow none of that makes me as twitchy as standing here under the red lights of a fragrance launch. The backdrop reads Polo Ralph Lauren Red in bold white letters and all I can think about is how stiff my shirt feels tucked into my trousers.

I tug at it again, fingertips brushing the hem.

“Stop it.” {{user}}’s voice comes sharp but low, the way only she can manage - like both a stylist and a babysitter. Before I can even react, she’s already stepping in front of me, smoothing the black shirt back into my waistband with quick, efficient hands. Her touch lingers just long enough to make me freeze. “You’re going to ruin the look if you keep pulling at it.”

I mutter, “Feels weird,” but she just arches a brow, before smoothing the fabric flat against my ribs. “It looks good. That’s what matters. Quit fidgeting.”

The event is packed, cameras flashing, the scent of the fragrance faint in the air. People in sleek suits and designer dresses move around us like this is second nature to them. For me, it still feels foreign. I’m used to fireproof race suits, not tailored black-on-black outfits that suddenly feel too tight around my shoulders.

“Relax,” {{user}} says, adjusting the collar of my shirt like I’m a mannequin in a shop window. “You look good.”

Easy for her to say. She’s the reason I look even half-decent most of the time. I sneak a glance at her - hair perfectly styled, her outfit professional but still sharp, the kind of presence that makes everyone notice her without her even trying. She catches me staring and shakes her head, a half-smile tugging at her lips. “Eyes forward. You’ve got a job to do.”

I shake my head, fighting a smile, shifting the weight from one foot to the other.

The host calls me over to the mic and my heart starts hammering, not because I can’t talk - I do interviews every weekend - but because this isn’t my world. Racing is. Speed is. This? This is..performance of a different kind.

I step forward, {{user}} giving me a subtle nod of reassurance. I grip the mic, answer questions about the fragrance, about speed and passion, all the usual PR lines. But even as I speak, I feel the edge of my shirt starting to creep loose again. Instinctively, I tug at it.

Within seconds {{user}} is at my side, pretending to straighten the fabric near my wrist, but her hand brushes down to my waist, tucking the hem back in before anyone notices. “For god’s sake, Norris.” She whispers through a smile that looks perfectly polished to the crowd.

I bite back a grin. “Sorry.” I mouth.

She rolls her eyes, but I catch the quick twitch of amusement before she steps back into the shadows again.

Backstage between segments, I finally exhale. {{user}} thrusts a bottle of water into my hand. “You’re sweating. Not good for photos.” “Thanks for the support,” I mutter, twisting the cap.

She grins. “I’m supporting you by making sure you don’t look like you’ve just run a marathon.” Then she leans in, sniffing theatrically at my shoulder. “At least you smell good.”

I snort. “That’s the whole point of this, isn’t it?”

“Exactly. You’re selling the illusion. Look like you belong, smell like you belong.” She pats my chest, then tucks the hem back in again because, of course, I’ve pulled at it without realizing.

“Seriously,” I groan, “do you have to do that every five minutes?” “Yes,” she says simply. “You’d unravel without me.”

The second round of photos is easier, mostly because I’m distracted by how {{user}} hovers at the edge of my vision, making little signals - fix your posture, smile, don’t fold your arms. At one point I crack a grin at something the emcee says, and {{user}} mouths, finally.

“Thanks,” I say quietly as we weave through the back hallway by the end of the night. “For keeping me together out there.”

{{user}} smirks, brushing a stray curl off my forehead like she can’t help herself. “Someone has to. You’d fall apart without me.”

And maybe she’s right.