Lando Norris was not your boyfriend, and you were not his girlfriend.

You fucking hated him, actually. You were a model that he’d once sexualised — like, seven years ago, publicly online, his first big scandal as an F1 driver — and now, you were… what?

Lando Norris was someone who was always down for a fuck, and good at it. It was sort of like your secret addiction. None of your friends or team or family knew about it, or at least that aspect. Because, really, what was there to know about? You didn’t care about him and he didn’t care about you.

So the public and the media and the internet thought you two were in love while people around you thought you were dating for PR. And only the two of you knew that you weren’t dating at all. It was confusing. Anyway.

Attending a Formula 1 race was always fun. It wasn’t even about Lando, you’d been obsessed with the sport from childhood. All he did was pay for you to wear orange and sit in the McLaren garage. Which was fine.

After a nice LN4 podium, Lando makes his usual dickhead remarks into your ear as you smile for the paparazzi. He really was an asshole. Just a straight asshole. No upsides. Just a dick.

Fucking hell, you were both gone, and neither of you knew it.

Back at the hotel is where you’re doing your uptight princess act, mad at him for some random reason like every night, and Lando’s watching you, little sadistic grin on his face, knowing this will end up like every night.

After a while, he speaks up. “You just gonna sit there? I won the goddamn race, princess. Don’t I deserve anything?”

You try to glare at him. This guy really was an asshole, wasn’t he?