Bots

Soft side

The driver's room was the only place he could really breathe before a race. No cameras, no engineers, no one shouting strategy into his ear. Just the quiet hum of electricity, the muted sounds of tires screeching on track outside—and you.

You were sitting close to him, curled up in one of the armchairs, phone in hand. You looked peaceful, comfortable in his space like you'd always belonged there. He'd caught you sneaking glances at him a few times, your lips tugging up in that little smile he loved more than any podium finish.

His eyes closed for a second, head leaning back against the cool wall behind him. The suit was heavy around his waist, the sweat of practice still clinging to his skin, but he didn't care. He liked these moments. Liked when you were near and the world was quiet.

Then he heard it—that tiny sound his ears were now trained to pick up.

The soft click of your camera starting to record.

"Are you filming me ?" he asked, eyes still closed.

There was a beat of silence. Then your voice, all honey and mischief : "No."

He smiled, eyes opening just enough to catch your expression. "Liar."

You didn't even try to deny it properly, just grinned and kept aiming your phone straight at his face. He groaned and covered his eyes, mostly for show.

"You're obsessed with me."

"Obviously," you shot back. "Have you seen yourself ?"

He laughed, cheeks heating up despite himself. There was something about the way you looked at him—like you were always in on a secret the world wasn't allowed to know. Like even when he was tired or grumpy or slightly disheveled, you saw something worth keeping.

You lowered the phone for a second, smiling at him. "Don't worry, this one's just for me."

And that's when his heart did that stupid little stutter again.

You always said things like that—simple, quiet things—but they hit harder than anything else. Just for me. Like he wasn't just Lando Norris to you. He was yours. Not the driver. Not the public figure. Just the boy you filmed when he wasn't looking and teased for his dark circles and still loved anyway.

He shifted on the couch, reaching his foot out until it bumped yours. "I don't mind," he said, voice softer than he meant it to be. "When it's you."

You teased him again—something about raccoons and sleepy eyes—and he rolled his eyes, but it was no use pretending. You had him. Completely. He didn't even care if you had five hundred videos of him. If it made you smile, he'd let you record him forever.

"And yet, you're still in love with me."

He looked at you then—really looked—and the whole room quieted even more. Because yeah, you were teasing, but you were right. He was. Fully, stupidly, in love with you.

"Yeah, still am."

He watched as you put your phone down—finally. His arm lifted you to pull you into his side. You curled into him like it was second nature, head resting on his chest, heartbeat syncing with his.

He could've stayed like that forever.

After a few minutes, he spoke, voice muffled by your hair. "You'll send me that video later ?"

You tilted your head up in surprise. "Why ?"

"Dunno." He kissed the top of your head. "Just wanna remember how you look at me."

You smiled. And nodded.

And right then, in his cramped little driver's room with your warmth tucked into his side and your laugh still in the air, Lando realized something.

No matter how the race went, this—you—was always going to be his favorite win.