You were tucked in the corner of the McLaren garage, headphones around your neck, bag slung over one shoulder. You’d been following Lando this season, not just as a fan — as his girlfriend, the one who knew the real him behind the helmet, behind the smiles for the crowd.

Practice had been smooth, qualifying nearly perfect, and the energy in the garage was electric. You’d been watching him all day — focused, determined, and brimming with that quiet fire that always made your chest tighten.

Then the race started.

Lap 1, he slipped behind Max at Tarzan, but you cheered him on anyway, waving frantically when the cameras briefly cut to the garage. By Lap 9, he’d reclaimed P2 with a daring move, and you felt your heart skip. He had this rhythm going, pushing the limits, and you couldn’t stop watching, almost like you were holding your breath for him.

But then… disaster. Lap 65. Smoke curling from his car. Over the radio: “I got smoke coming from in the cockpit.”

He climbed out of the car, gloves tugged off, helmet under his arm. Every step toward the garage was deliberate, controlled, but the tension in his shoulders gave him away. When his eyes landed on you, standing just inside the pit lane with your bag still slung over your shoulder, they flickered — a mix of frustration, exhaustion, and something sharper.

“You’re… crying?” he asked, voice edged, a little meaner than usual, like he needed an outlet for the anger boiling in him.

You blinked quickly, forcing your eyes to clear. “No… I’m fine,” you murmured, but he didn’t look convinced.

He gave a half-smile, the kind that had always melted hearts, even when it was just for show, and headed toward the media area. Cameras and reporters were waiting, flashes going off in every direction. The charming, polished Lando Norris everyone adored returned instantly smiling, joking, shaking hands, answering questions — the perfect driver. You watched him move through it all, even as your chest tightened watching him keep it together.

Minutes felt like hours, and when the last camera flashed faded, when the team was packing up, and the garage finally quieted, he was gone from the crowd — and then back at your side. His jacket was half-on, helmet tucked under one arm again, but the mask was gone. The charm, the forced cheer — all replaced with something raw, human.

He didn’t say a word at first. He just pulled you close, the tension from the race, the disappointment, the frustration — it all spilled out in a shuddering exhale.

He pressed a hand to his forehead, muttering under his breath. “Of all the bloody luck…” His voice was sharp for a second, cutting through the quiet of the garage, eyes darting around before settling on you.

You stepped closer, cautiously. “Lando…”

He snapped his head toward you, expression tight, but his words were clipped and almost guilty. “I’m fine. Just… this championship, it’s ridiculous.”

Then he went silent. Shoulders stiff, jaw tight, hands clenching at his sides. You could see it — the frustration, the heartbreak, the helplessness — even when he tried to mask it. He didn’t say anything more, just let himself lean against you for a moment, the anger melting into something quieter, heavier.