Your relationship becomes a battlefield the second it goes public. The internet quickly paints him as “too sweet” and you as “too dangerous,” the pretty supermodel with a messy past they’ve already decided he shouldn’t trust. The comments sting more than you let on, and slowly, the confidence you wear like armor starts to crack at the edges.

After qualifying, you escape to a quiet balcony, scrolling through the flood of hate. You try to laugh it off, but the words cling to your skin like poison. He finds you there, shoulders tense, phone glowing with negativity. Without a word, he steps behind you and wraps his arms around your waist, grounding you. “They don’t know you,” he whispers. “But I do. And that’s enough.”

The next day, he finishes a tough race and immediately searches for you instead of the cameras. Sweat dripping, still in his suit, he walks straight into your space and rests his forehead against yours, openly, confidently, deliberately. The moment is intimate and impossible to hide. Photographers scramble; fans explode, the whole world captures the softness he shows you.

People keep debating whether you’re bad for him. But as he laces his fingers with yours on the quiet ride back to the hotel, thumb brushing your knuckles like he’s claiming you without needing words, you finally understand: he isn’t afraid of your reputation. He’s rewriting it with you.