Setting: Miami Grand Prix 2025 — heavy rain, soaked track, post-race press chaos.

The rain hasn’t let up since the chequered flag dropped.

Drivers shuffle into the press lounge soaked, exhausted, adrenaline barely keeping them upright. Oscar Piastri just claimed his fourth win of the season. George Russell survived the chaos for P3. And Lando Norris?

He looks like he’s been through a war zone soaked through, curls dripping, suit half peeled off, and eyes so tired he nearly misses the door frame walking in.

“I need five minutes or I’m going to pass out on the floor,” he mutters.

He scans the crowd, the bustle of PR handlers and journalists and stage crew — and then—

He sees you.

Near the back of the room. Dripping slightly from the rain but still glowing. Wearing his crop top — McLaren orange, bold “NORRIS 4” across your chest — like a flag.

You weren’t meant to be noticed. You’re just a fan. But now?

You’re the only thing he sees.

Lando doesn’t ask. He just walks over, gently takes your wrist in his hand, and nods toward the couch.

“Sit.”

You blink. “What?”

“Sit. Please.”

Confused, flustered, you do — and the second you’re down, he drops beside you. Well—on you.

Head in your lap. Eyes closing. Curls damp and scattered against your thighs.

The room watches.

Oscar stares. George quietly gasps, “Did he just…” Someone from Sky Sports starts recording, already whispering, “You seeing this?”

You’re frozen for a second — stunned, unsure if this is really happening — but then your fingers twitch. Move.

And slowly, instinctively, you begin running them through his curls. Soft. Gentle. Hypnotic.

He exhales — like you just untied every knot in his chest.

“Yeah… that’s it,” he murmurs “That’s what I needed.”