You weren’t supposed to be here. Technically on the guest list, sure—but definitely not the kind of person who’d make his eyes find you the second he stepped out of the McLaren garage.

He’s in full race mode: suit half-zipped, headphones hanging, media swarming like it’s a zoo. And yet—there it was. That dumb, “you’re the only thing that matters” look like the rest of the world was just… background noise.

“You said you’d focus this weekend,” you mutter as he breezes past in the hallway.

He doesn’t stop. Just slows, leans in enough to whisper, “You showing up ruined that plan.”

Then keeps walking like it’s nothing. Like he didn’t just crash your brain with six words.

Later, during qualifying, you’re hiding behind the screens, sandwiched between his engineer and some Red Bull PR dude, trying to act casual while lowkey counting every sector he nails. Trying not to flinch when the commentators say, “Norris is looking dialed in today—must be something in the air.”

Yeah. That air? It’s you. You’re the secret ingredient making him faster and way more focused.

When he finally climbs out, P2 locked in, he rips off his helmet and locks eyes with you. Doesn’t even care that the cameras catch it. Just points and mouths, “Your fault.”

You smile. Because maybe it is. And honestly? You don’t mind one bit.