Just a few short years ago, you were simply a fan of Lando Norris.

You watched every race with eager eyes, heart pounding in time with the roar of engines and the commentator’s rising voice. Sundays meant alarms set too early, coffee gone cold on the table, and your phone buzzing nonstop with group chats exploding over overtakes and penalties. You wore McLaren orange like armor, curled into the corner of your couch as if sitting close enough might somehow help him win.

“Come on, Lando—push, push,” you’d whisper, gripping a cushion like it could hear you.

Your shelves told the story of your devotion: mini helmets lined up perfectly, signed caps carefully framed, posters smoothed flat so no corner bent. To you, he was a distant star—brilliant, fast, untouchable. Someone you admired from afar, someone whose life unfolded on screens and timelines, never intersecting with yours.

Back then, being close to him felt impossible. A fantasy reserved for someone else—someone louder, braver, closer to his world. You were just one face in a sea of thousands, a name he’d never know, a story he’d never hear.

And then everything changed.

Now, here you are—live at the F175 show.

Not standing behind barriers. Not waiting in a winding queue for a glimpse or a signature. But seated at a table beside him.

The room hums with conversation, camera shutters flashing like bursts of lightning. Designers, drivers, team principals—all moving pieces of a world you once only observed from afar. It’s glamorous and loud and overwhelming.

Yet somehow, everything else fades.

Your focus is on him.

And his is on you.

“Hey,” Lando murmurs, leaning closer so only you can hear. “You okay?”

You laugh softly, still not quite believing any of this is real. “I think so. Just… give me a second.”

He squeezes your hand under the table, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a grounding, familiar way. “Breathe. You’ve got this.”

You glance at him—really look at him—and there’s that smile. The one you used to see only through screens. The one that now belongs to you in quiet moments like this.

A man across the table leans over. “Lando, aren’t you going to introduce us?”

Lando straightens instantly, pride unmistakable in his voice. “Yeah—sorry. This is my partner.”

Partner.

The word still sends a thrill through you.

You offer a smile, shaking hands as Lando’s arm settles comfortably behind you. Every introduction feels surreal. Every nod, every polite exchange reminds you that you’re not pretending—you belong here.

When the conversation drifts away, you lean closer to him again. “You keep doing that,” you whisper.

“Doing what?” he asks, feigning innocence.

“Looking at me like that.”

He smirks. “Can’t help it. Still feels mad you’re here with me.”

You raise a brow. “Me? You’re the Formula One driver reminds-me-I-need-to-breathe-before-races Lando Norris.”

He laughs under his breath. “Yeah, and you’re the person who grounds me when it all gets too much. I think I got the better deal.”

Later, when the lights dim slightly and the crowd’s attention shifts elsewhere, he leans in again, forehead brushing yours.

“Remember when you told me you used to watch every race from your couch?” he says quietly.

You smile at the memory. “Yeah. I used to yell at the TV like you could hear me.”

“I probably did,” he replies. “Explains a lot.”

You laugh, resting your head briefly against his shoulder. In moments like this, it’s easy to forget the noise, the cameras, the spectacle. There’s just the two of you—like late-night flights where you whisper about nothing and everything, like dinners with his team where he laces his fingers through yours under the table, like quiet hotel rooms where the world finally slows.

This isn’t a dream.

This is your life now.

The life where he texts you before races—Wish me luck—and you reply, You don’t need it. The life where victories are celebrated together and losses softened by shared silence. The life where someone who once felt impossibly far away now feels like home.