Lando Norris

The noise never really stops.

Even hours after the podium, after the interviews and the champagne showers and the photos that will live forever, the world still hums around Lando like electricity. Congratulations echo from every direction. Hands clap his back. Cameras catch every blink, every grin, every stunned inhale like he’s afraid this is all a dream.

World Champion.

It feels unreal in his mouth.

He slips away when no one’s looking and ducks out of the hotel elevator before anyone can follow and pushes open the door to the balcony. Cool night air hits his overheated skin. For the first time all day, it’s quiet.

Then he hears the door behind him.

“You ran,” you say softly.

He laughs, breathless, leaning his elbows on the railing. “Felt like I was gonna explode if one more person called me ‘champ.’”

You step beside him, close enough that your arm brushes his. Close enough that his shoulders finally drop. You’re wearing his hoodie, the black McLaren one he tossed you earlier without thinking, still smelling faintly like champagne and asphalt.

“I did it,” he says, voice almost disbelieving. “I actually did it.”

You smile, but there’s something steadier in it than the cameras ever catch. “I know.”

He turns to look at you. Really look. No flash, no crowd, no pressure to perform gratitude or joy or confidence. Just you. The person who’s seen him throw his gloves in frustration. Who’s stayed up through horrible debriefs and silent drives home. Who’s heard him whisper, What if I’m not good enough? into the dark.

Everyone else treats him differently now. Like he’s something fragile or untouchable or suddenly larger than life.

You don’t.

That’s what makes his chest ache.

“I’m scared,” he admits suddenly, the words tumbling out before he can second-guess them. “Like… what if this changes everything? What if I change? What if this is the best it ever gets and now I just spend the rest of my career trying not to screw it up?”

You don’t rush him. You never do.

You reach out, fingers curling into the sleeve of his fireproof undershirt like you’ve done a hundred times before races. Grounding. Familiar.

“Lando,” you say quietly, “you were still you when you didn’t win. You’re still you now.”

He swallows. His eyes burn not from tears, but from the sheer weight of being seen.

“I don’t want to lose this,” he says. Not the trophy. Not the title. This. You. The normalcy you give him when everything else feels too big.

You step closer, forehead resting against his. “You won a championship,” you whisper. “But you don’t have to prove anything anymore. Especially not to me.”

Something inside him finally gives.

He exhales shakily and pulls you into him, arms wrapping around your back like he’s afraid you might vanish if he loosens his grip. You fit against him perfectly, like you always have. Like all the noise never mattered.

For the first time today, Lando Norris isn’t a world champion.

He’s just yours.

And somehow, that means everything.