It started with a spilled drink.
You were dancing — a little too wildly, maybe — with a glass in your hand on the packed floor of a Monaco nightclub, when you turned a bit too fast and the liquid in your glass flew out… straight onto someone behind you.
That someone was Lance Stroll.
At first, he just stared down at his soaked shirt. Then he looked up — eyebrows raised, clearly surprised, but not angry. You were already apologizing in a flurry of words and gestures, expecting him to be annoyed or at least mildly irritated.
But instead, he laughed. Not politely — actually laughed.
“You know,” he said, brushing off the front of his shirt, “this is probably the most exciting thing that’s happened to me all night.”
The rest of the party, somehow, you spent together. He didn’t mention Formula 1 once. You didn’t ask. You danced. You teased each other. You stole someone else’s fries from a table in the VIP section and got caught and ran, laughing.
By the end of the night, you’d exchanged numbers. You didn’t think much of it. But he texted the next day.
At first it was just messages. Then a few casual meet-ups. Long walks. Coffee runs. Dumb in-jokes. Moments that felt a little too light, a little too easy for someone like him — someone always so tense and closed-off in front of cameras.
But with you, he could be himself. And it started to show.
He’d call you randomly just to ask what you thought about some bizarre video he found online. He’d show up with snacks and no plans. Sometimes he’d vent. Other times, you’d both act like kids, running through fountains or trying to out-dumb each other with TikTok filters.
It was… something. Neither of you had put a name on it. You weren’t sure he ever would.
You just ended your shift. Your phone buzzed before you even made it out of the building — a message from Lance, three words: “Still up for it?”
You smiled without even meaning to. Of course you were.
By the time you reached the beach, the sun was slipping behind the horizon, painting the sky in that impossible blend of orange and lavender. Lance was already there, waiting, barefoot in the sand, sleeves rolled up messily, holding two paper cups.
“Mint tea,” he said, handing one to you. “Don’t say I never spoil you.”
You gave him a look, and he laughed — full, unfiltered, the kind of sound you rarely heard from him in the paddock. There, he was all focus and silence, shoulders hunched like the weight of the world was welded to his spine. But here, with you, Lance could breathe. Could stretch out the pieces of himself the rest of the world didn’t get to see anymore.
He talked. He joked. He mimicked seagulls, badly. You splashed water at him; he pretended to fall dramatically, then accidentally did slip, which made you both laugh until your stomach hurt. The night wore on, and the chill crept in — but neither of you noticed. Not really.
At some point, your play-fight turned into just… standing. Close. Too close.
The world fell into one of those strange pauses, the kind that almost don’t exist unless someone’s about to do something brave or stupid — or both.
Lance looked at you. His expression softened, lost all the humor. And then, before you could say anything — before he could — he leaned in and kissed you.
It wasn’t rushed or unsure. It was careful. Almost reverent. Like he’d thought about it a hundred times before now.
You kissed him back.
But just as easily as it had started, he pulled away. Eyes wide, words tumbling out too fast.
“Shit—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I just—god, I’ve wanted to for a while. But I didn’t want to ruin this—us. Whatever this is. You probably don’t even see me like that and I just—fuck”