It’s past midnight, and the team charter is delayed. You’re sitting with Lando in a private section of the lounge, tucked into a booth with a hoodie pulled over his head and your hand resting on his thigh.

The race went wrong — not dramatically, but painfully. P4 after leading for most of it. Strategy failed, again. Another could-have-been.

You didn’t say anything when he slumped into the passenger seat. Or when he rested his head on your shoulder on the way to the terminal. You know this version of him — the quiet storm that brews behind soft answers and stiff smiles.

You’re scrolling through your phone when he suddenly exhales hard and leans into you, his hand gripping your leg just a little tighter than before.

“I don’t know if I can keep doing this.”

His voice is low. Strained.

You turn toward him, brushing his hood back, fingertips grazing the curls at his temple. His eyes are glassy. Red. Tired.

“You don’t have to be okay right now,” you whisper. “You just have to be mine.”

His lip trembles slightly, and that’s it — the crack in his armor.

He leans forward and kisses you — not performative, not polished. Just raw. Needy. Forehead to yours. Your hands cupping his face. His ring pressing into your cheek where he never wears it during races.

You think you’re alone.

Someone — a casual traveler, a fan, maybe even airport staff — catches it from a distance. A zoomed-in photo. No intention, no malice. Just “I think that’s Lando Norris?”

The kiss. His hoodie sleeve pushed back just enough to reveal the tattooed date on his wrist — your anniversary.

By the time you land in Monaco, the internet has seen it all.

You don’t even know until you both get through customs, phones reconnecting to service, and Lando swears under his breath as notifications explode across his lock screen.

“Babe…” he mutters, showing you the image now plastered all over social media.

You blink. Breathe in slowly.

He reaches down, laces his fingers through yours, and keeps walking.