After every race weekend, the world doesn’t quiet down for you the way it does for Lando. While he showers, laughs with the team, or disappears into postrace routines, you sit somewhere with your phone in your hand, already bracing yourself. You tell yourself it’s harmless, just checking mentions, just scrolling, but your heart knows better. Loving someone this visible means every mistake echoes louder than it should.

It’s never just one post. It’s clips taken out of context, screenshots without tone, headlines sharpened for clicks. Sometimes it’s not even something he did wrong, just something he said too loosely, too confidently, trusting the world to be kind. You’ve learned how fast admiration turns into judgment, and how quickly people drag you into it simply for standing beside him.

When Lando finally notices your silence, he asks casually “Everything okay?” like the answer might be simple. You look up at him, at the ease in his face, and you nod. You always nod. You don’t want to be the weight he carries after a long race. You don’t want to be the reminder that love sometimes comes with consequences.

Later that night, you turn your phone face down and curl closer to him, listening to his breathing slow. You don’t ask him to stop being himself. You just wish, quietly, that loving him didn’t feel like waiting for something to go wrong every time the internet wakes up.