when people talk about lando norris, they talk about the obvious stuff—pole positions, podiums, that grin he flashes in post-race interviews like he’s not running on four hours of sleep.

what they don’t talk about? the girl always wearing his headphones in the background. the one who’s never tagged in photos, never posted—but somehow always there.

they don’t know that you met years ago. that it started with a missed flight and a shared power bank at the airport. that you weren’t some lifelong fan or a girl who knew tire compounds. just someone who laughed at his airport outfit and made fun of his playlist.

but now? you’ve got a mclaren lanyard around your neck and a hotel keycard in your back pocket with his room number on it.

you’re not media. you’re not staff. you’re just his.

and right now, you’re sitting cross-legged on the hotel bed while he stands shirtless by the mirror, trying to flatten his hair before the team’s end-of-season gala. he groans when it curls wrong.

“just let it do its thing,” you mumble, not looking up from your phone.

“it’s doing too much,” he complains.

you glance up, eyes skimming the white sweater, the black pants, the soft nervous energy he always gets before cameras flash. he’s so obviously lando norris. and yet, not for you.

for you, he’s the idiot who shares snacks on flights and insists on playing country music at 8am.

he grabs his phone from the dresser, but doesn’t walk out right away. “you coming down with me?”

you blink. “i wasn’t invited.”

he pauses, then grins. “didn’t realize i needed to send you a formal one.”

so you slip on a dress and heels. walk out beside him. and as the elevator doors close, he reaches over and presses one of his airpods into your ear without saying a word.

just like always.