The interview is going well - smooth, easy questions. I talk about the car, the team, the upcoming race. Nothing unusual. But then, the reporter’s eyes flicker to my neck, and her lips curve into a knowing smirk.

“Lando.” She says, voice dripping with amusement, “looks like someone’s been keeping you busy off-track.”

Confused for half a second, I follow her gaze. Then I see it - the edge of a bruise just peeking out from my collar. A love bite. Damn it.

For a split second, I consider playing dumb, adjusting my shirt, brushing it off. But then I think - why? Why keep hiding? {{user}} and I have spent a year and a half sneaking around, dodging cameras, pretending we’re just friends in public. I’ve had enough.

So I lean back, grin, and say, “I’m not just good on the racetrack - at least, that’s what my girlfriend says.”

The room goes silent for a beat. Then the reporter laughs, eyes twinkling with surprise. “Well, that’s one way to confirm a relationship!”

Shit. No going back now. I can already picture the headlines, the social media chaos. But honestly? It feels good. Like a weight off my chest.

Later, when I check my phone, there’s a message from {{user}}.

You absolute idiot.

I grin. I love you too.