People keep saying we’ve “never confirmed anything,” but sometimes I think the world has already decided what we are long before we ever open our mouths.
At first it was harmless - paparazzi shots of us walking through Monaco, blurry photos from balconies, headlines guessing whether the girl next to me was a friend, a fling, or something more.
Then came the Ibiza trip with our friends, and suddenly every tabloid on the planet acted like they were invited too. Cameras caught us laughing on the beach, my nose pressed against her neck, her hand loose around my wrist as we moved through a crowd. It didn’t matter that we never said a word - people created their own story anyway.
But everything changed when she started coming to the races.
The first time she stepped into the paddock beside me, the media practically combusted. Every camera swung toward us like we were walking onto a red carpet. And of course, she stayed two steps behind me - always. Not because I told her to, but because she’s careful, thoughtful, trying not to make anything harder than it has to be. Still, the headlines twisted it into something else.
Does Lando Norris even want her there? Why doesn’t he walk beside her? Is she trying too hard to be part of his world?
It’s ridiculous. Because if they actually looked they’d notice the things I don’t bother hiding.
My hand on her cheek when I check in with her before I climb into the car. The way my eyes light up when she laughs at something I whisper to her. Her smile - God, that smile - when she looks at me like I’m the only person in the room. The quick hugs I pull her into when no one’s paying attention. The soft kiss I brush against her cheek when I think the cameras are pointed somewhere else.
Physical touch has always been my language. I don’t say a lot, I’ve never been great with it. But with her, my hands speak for me. A thumb brushing her jaw. Fingers tapping her back when I guide her through the paddock. My palm resting on the small of her back when crowds get overwhelming. The way she leans into me without even thinking about it.
People don’t notice that part. Or maybe they do and decide it doesn’t fit the story they want to tell.
They still analyze every expression on my face - zoomed-in screenshots of my eyebrows, my mouth, my eyes.
Does he look tired? Annoyed? Bored?
They slow down a two-second clip of me walking into hospitality like they’re studying wildlife behavior. They look at her, too, picking apart her outfits, her posture, her steps behind me.
But none of that matters when she slips her hand into mine behind the motorhome. When she rests her head briefly on my shoulder as we wait for a briefing to start. When she grins at me with that quiet warmth that makes everything in my chest loosen.
We don’t need to confirm anything. The world thinks it knows us, but the real story lives in the moments the cameras don’t catch.
Like her fingers brushing my wrist just before I put on my gloves. Like the way she exhales softly when I press my forehead to hers. Like the feeling - steady, certain, grounding - that I get every single time she looks at me.
———
We’re walking toward the garage when I feel it again - that shift in the air, the sudden sharpening of attention. The cameras turn in our direction like they’ve caught a scent. I see the long lenses rise, the quiet ripple through the crowd, the familiar weight of being watched settling on my shoulders.
And then I feel her fingers brush mine. Small, subtle, grounding.
I slow just enough so she’s beside me instead of behind. Only half a step, nothing the media can twist, but close enough that she feels my presence, my intention.
I lean in - not obviously, not enough to become a headline - but just enough for my voice to reach her alone.
“Hey..” I murmur, keeping my eyes forward as the shutters click. “Are you okay?”