I’ve gotten used to people speculating. Every time I’m spotted with {{user}}, the internet decides we’re secretly married, or she’s moving into my place, or she’s pregnant. None of it’s true - well, not yet anyway. The truth is simpler. We’re dating, quietly and for once in my life I actually don’t want to share something with the whole world. She’s mine and I like keeping that part private.

But keeping things private gets complicated when {{user}}’s world collides with mine. She’s not just {{user}}, my girlfriend. She’s {{user}} the supermodel, the actress, the face on magazine covers at airports I walk through. And she’s also the mother of a three-year-old whirlwind named Ella, her daughter from a previous relationship.

This weekend proves how much those worlds blur. {{user}} has to attend an event - something she can’t bring Ella to. No babysitter works out. So I tell her, without really thinking twice, that I’ll take care of it.

“Lando,” she says, raising a brow, “you have a race.”

“Yeah,” I shrug. “So I’ll take her with me.”

That’s how I end up stepping off a private jet in my McLaren hoodie, Ella balanced on my hip, tiny headphones on her ears. She’s got her hair tied up and she clings to me like she’s known me forever. A photographer catches us right as I adjust her backpack strap. The picture is everywhere before I’ve even left the tarmac.

The headlines practically write themselves: Lando Norris carrying {{user}}’s daughter - are they a family already?

I try not to think about it, but then we’re walking through the city together. Ella insists on holding my hand, skipping along beside me, pointing at every car and streetlight. Fans spot us, phones out, some whispering, some bold enough to ask questions. Where’s {{user}}? Why am I with her kid? I smile, keep walking. Pretend I don’t hear.

Honestly, I don’t mind. Ella’s easy to be around. We get ice cream, sit in the park, her legs dangling from the bench as she licks chocolate off her fingers. She babbles about cartoons and the puppy she wants. I push her on the swings until she’s breathless with laughter. For a little while, I forget there are cameras anywhere.

Still, the speculation grows louder. By the end of the day, hashtags trend: #DadLando and #LandoWithElla. People zoom in on the way she rests her head on my shoulder, how natural it looks.

Two days later {{user}} finally joins us - event done, glamorous as ever, sunglasses hiding her eyes until she takes them off and smiles at me. She kneels to scoop Ella up, kissing her cheeks while Ella squeals “Mama!” and clings tight. And then {{user}} looks at me and there’s this softness in her eyes only I ever see.

We spend the rest of the weekend together - the race, the chaos of the paddock and then, once the checkered flag will drop, we will board a plane and slip away to a quiet holiday just the three of us.

Paparazzi catch her in the paddock, Ella on her lap in the hospitality suite, me dropping kisses to both of them when I think no one’s watching.

The photos are everywhere again and now the speculation isn’t just speculation anymore. Maybe it doesn’t matter if people know. Maybe what I was trying to protect isn’t really threatened at all.

Because standing there, helmet under my arm, {{user}}’s hand brushing mine, Ella tugging on my race suit like I’m her hero - it feels like something I don’t need to hide. Not from anyone.