It wasn’t a race weekend. No fancy hotels, no cameras, no rushed airport hugs. Just… a quiet day off.

And Lando said he wanted to spend it properly.

“Come to Bristol with me,” he said, like it was no big deal. “Meet Mum. See where I grew up. I wanna show you my favourite chippy.”

You were nervous—like, terrified nervous—but he held your hand the whole train ride like you were something fragile and precious and not someone lowkey spiraling over what his family would think of you.

But when you got there, his mum opened the door and pulled you into a hug like she already knew you. Like you were just coming home.

“About time,” she whispered with a wink. “He hasn’t shut up about you.”

And Lando? He just blushed and ducked his head like a teenager caught passing notes.

You walked through his childhood neighbourhood. He showed you the corner he scraped his knee riding a bike, the park where he kicked a football through someone’s window, the bakery that still knew his order by heart.

“This is where I first told my mate I wanted to race,” he said, standing by a rusty gate. “He laughed.”

You bumped his shoulder. “Bet he feels real dumb now.”

He smiled. That shy, proud, soft smile he only ever does when he’s letting you see parts of him no one else gets.