The weekend had been loud — engines roaring, crowds chanting, the smell of rubber and gasoline thick in the air. MotoGP weekends had their own kind of chaos, different from Formula 1 but still electric. For once, though, Lando wasn’t in the spotlight. He wasn’t the driver with cameras shoved in his face, or the guy every fan wanted to corner for an autograph.

This time, he was just Lando — twenty-five, grinning like a kid again, wandering the paddock like he’d stepped into a dream.

You’d caught him more than once pausing, just looking at the motorbikes lined up with their gleaming paint and snarling engines. He kept asking questions, soaking in every detail from the mechanics like he was trying to memorize it all. You didn’t interrupt, just trailed along, letting him be in his element. It was rare to see him like this — not stressed about strategy or the next qualifying lap, but wide-eyed, curious, free.

By Sunday, you were trackside, the air trembling with the growl of engines and the sharp tang of fuel and rubber. Everything was louder, faster, more immediate from here — every lean into a corner, every blur of color just meters away.

Lando had been buzzing since morning, fidgeting with his wristband, pushing his hair back every other second. He’d told you a hundred times already how much this day meant to him, but it wasn’t until Valentino Rossi himself walked over that you saw the boy in him come out — the one who’d watched every race wide-eyed, dreaming.

“Lando,” Valentino greeted warmly, clapping him on the shoulder. “Ready to watch some real racing, eh?”

Lando laughed too quickly, stumbling over his words. “I—yeah, I mean, I’ve been… since I was a kid, you’re—” He cut himself off, rubbing the back of his neck, cheeks a little pink.

You squeezed his hand, steadying him, your thumb brushing over his knuckles. He glanced at you briefly, a flicker of gratitude in his eyes, before turning back to Valentino, who was already pointing out the subtle things only a racer would notice — how a rider carried speed through a corner, how one of them looked too heavy on the brakes.

Watching Lando in that moment was like watching a mirror you didn’t know existed. The same fire, the same quick temper hidden beneath the grin he showed the world, the same stubborn streak that refused to let him back down from anything. And beneath all of it, that tenderness only a few people ever got to see. Sensitive to the core, even if he tried so hard to mask it.

He leaned in closer when Rossi spoke, hanging on every word, his laughter spilling out unguarded when the older man teased him about the way certain riders braked too late. It was a laugh that cracked him wide open — boyish, free, the kind that made your chest ache with how much you wanted to freeze time. All those pieces of him, somehow fit perfectly together.

The bikes screamed past again, the ground trembling under your feet, but you hardly noticed. You were too busy watching him glow, alive in the kind of moment he’d probably remember for the rest of his life. His dream was unfolding right in front of him, and all you could feel was gratitude for being close enough to witness it.

Then, unexpectedly, Rossi’s gaze shifted. His sunglasses caught the afternoon sun as he looked straight at you, his expression softening into something curious, almost knowing.

“Ohh,” he said, his accent curling warmly around the words. A hint of a smile tugged at his lips as though he’d already guessed the answer. “So you’re his girlfriend?”