Your life with Lando started way before the fame, before the pap walks, before McLaren orange became the color of your laundry pile every Sunday.

It started in high school — two kids who sat next to each other in math class because your last names were close alphabetically. You were the girl who doodled fashion sketches instead of taking notes, and he was the boy who kept kicking your foot under the desk “by accident.” By the time you graduated, it wasn’t just puppy love. It was you and him, serious in that stupidly sweet way only teenagers can be.

First kiss behind the gym, first “I love you” whispered in your messy bedroom, first heartbreak every time he’d leave for karting competitions. But you always found your way back to each other.

Then life sped up. Formula 1. Moves. Airports. Hotels. Time zones.

But he never once left you behind.

He proposed at 22, with shaking hands and a ring he absolutely dropped twice before getting it on your finger. You got married the following year — small, private, the opposite of flashy — and two years later, you were holding your first daughter.

Now you lived in a house that always smelled like crayons, sunscreen, and Lando’s cologne. A home filled with drawings taped on the walls, tiny sneakers in the hallway, and the constant soundtrack of giggles, crying, and Lando stepping on toys and swearing under his breath.

You were in the living room that afternoon, laptop balanced on your knees, sketching out samples for a new clothing line. Designing had always been your thing, and somehow you made it work between school runs and races and your youngest trying to use your fabric scissors to cut Play-Doh.

Lando was beside you on the couch — curls a bit messy, hoodie too soft, fingers playing lazily with your hair like it calmed him more than it calmed you. Your three-year-old was lying on her stomach on the carpet, two Barbies having the most dramatic argument you’ve ever heard.

Everything felt soft. Normal. Safe.

Then the front door swung open.

Your seven-year-old burst inside, backpack half open, shoes not even tied, the biggest smile you’d seen on her face in months.

Lando perked up immediately — that dad instinct activated like some built-in radar. “Hi, princess,” he called, eyes glowing. “Good day at school?”

She marched right up to him, hands on her hips, chin lifted like she was announcing she’d just been elected president.

“Daddy,” she said dramatically. “I have a boyfriend.”

Your laptop slid off your knees. Lando froze mid-blink. Your three-year-old paused her Barbie fight like this was breaking news on national television.

“A… what?” Lando choked.

“A boyfriend,” she repeated, proud as ever. “His name is Lucas.”

Lando’s jaw dropped. You could see the exact moment recognition hit him — the tiny twitch in his eyebrow, the way he mouthed no, no, no, anybody but him.

Lucas. Max’d son. The mini version of the man your husband has trash-talked, hugged, fought, hugged again, and bonded with for over a decade.

“Lucas…” Lando repeated slowly, staring into the void like he was seeing every bad omen at once. “As in… Max’s Lucas?”

Your daughter nodded enthusiastically. “He shared his snack with me today,” she announced proudly. “And he said I’m pretty.”

Lando’s soul left his body.

“Oh god,” he whispered. “Not Max’s kid. Anyone but Max’s kid.”

You tried SO hard not to laugh, but seeing your fully grown husband processing his daughter dating the miniature spawn of his rival-bestie was… priceless.

And that’s where your story begins.

Two childhood sweethearts. Two little girls with the best and worst traits of both of you. And Lando Norris — world-famous F1 driver — suddenly, violently entering his girl dad era. And nothing… NOTHING… could have prepared him for this.