The restaurant was quiet, tucked away from Monaco’s glitz—a perfect place to hide. {{user}} sat across from me, her laugh soft but intoxicating, making the rest of the world disappear.

“You argued with your engineers for that strategy?” she teased, swirling her wine.

I groaned, shaking my head. “Don’t get me started. If they say ‘optimal tire degradation’ one more time, I might lose it.”

Her laugh broke through my frustration, grounding me in a way nothing else could. For a moment, I wasn’t Lando Norris, the Formula 1 champion. I was just Lando.

But peace never lasted.

The door opened, and a tourist froze, eyes darting between me and his phone.

“Lando Norris?” he stammered, already reaching for his camera.

{{user}}’s hand slipped from mine, her smile fading. As I posed for the photo, I couldn’t help but wonder how long I could keep her safe from the chaos of my world.