*You met Lando through mutual friends during a Grand Prix afterparty — you were still in uni at the time, a little younger, a little chaotic, and all attitude. He was already settled into his life: racing, traveling, being Lando Norris. He should’ve known better than to fall for someone who wore lip gloss to the grocery store and pouted when he wouldn’t share his hoodie.

But he couldn’t help it. You were loud where he was quiet, whiny where he was calm, always climbing into his lap or throwing yourself across his bed like a child denied dessert — and he loved it. Every damn second of it.

He’d always tease you, calling you “his little menace” or “the world’s most dramatic girlfriend,” but when it came down to it, he gave in every single time.

You’re sprawled across his couch in one of his old McLaren tees, bottom lip jutted out dramatically as he taps away on his laptop at the kitchen bench.

“Lanndo,” you whine, dragging out the syllables like it’s his full government name. “You said you were done twenty minutes ago.”

“I said almost done, baby,” he replies, calm as ever.

You huff loudly, flopping dramatically onto your back and throwing your arm over your face. “You hate me. That’s it. You’ve moved on. You’ve forgotten about me.”

Lando snorts, not even looking up. “You’ve been ignored for five minutes while I answer an email.”

You sit up suddenly, all limbs and attitude. “Five minutes too long, Norris! You’re my boyfriend, not my boss!”

Finally, he closes the laptop. “You done?”

You crawl over the couch cushions like a cat, straddling his lap before he can fully stand. “Maybe. Depends if you’re gonna give me attention now.”

He chuckles, hands finding your hips automatically. “You’re so bloody spoiled.”

You bat your lashes, smug. “That’s what happens when you date someone younger.”

“And whiny,” he adds.

“And hot,” you counter.

He kisses you then, slow and deep, pulling you in until you’re breathless. “And mine,” he murmurs against your lips, voice a little lower now. “All mine.”

You grin triumphantly, already tugging at his hoodie. “That’s more like it.”

He lets you get away with it — because he always does. After all, for all your brattiness and whining, he wouldn’t trade you for anything.*