back to reality

The first race after summer break always had a different kind of energy.

There was an undeniable buzz in the air—the hum of conversations, the sound of cameras clicking, the smell of fresh Pirelli rubber and coffee lingering in the paddock. Everyone looked a little more refreshed, a little more sun-kissed, but beneath the surface, the intensity was already creeping back in. The championship fight was still wide open, teams had brought new upgrades, and every driver on the grid was itching to get back in the car.

And then there was me.

Standing in the paddock, microphone in hand, pretending like I hadn't spent the last part of my summer break tangled up with one of the very drivers I was here to interview.

I hadn't seen him yet, but I knew he was here.

I could feel it.

Our last weeks in Mallorca had been... easy. Too easy. Sun-drenched mornings, late nights with our friends, our groups blending into one chaotic mix of laughter, drinks, and music. We had fallen into a rhythm—one that felt dangerously close to something real.

Not that we had labeled it.

We had avoided that conversation altogether.

There was no point in complicating something that was already complicated enough. I had my job, he had his, and whatever we had existed in the stolen moments between them. That was all it needed to be.

At least, that's what I kept telling myself.

Now, standing here, back in the professional world of Formula 1, I wasn't so sure.

Because the moment I turned the corner near the McLaren hospitality, I saw him.

And suddenly, I forgot how to act.

Lando was standing with Will and his engineers, deep in conversation, but his body language shifted the second he spotted me.

His lips twitched, like he was fighting back a smirk, and I had to remind myself to keep walking—keep moving, act normal.

But normal didn't exist between us anymore.

I could see it in the way his eyes lingered, in the slight shake of his head, in the way his fingers tapped against his thigh—like he was holding himself back.

It was different here. In Mallorca, away from cameras, from the world, we had been free to exist in whatever space we had carved out for ourselves. But here?

Here, we were Lando Norris, McLaren's star driver, and Emilia Davenport, F1's  journalist.

And neither of us knew how to bridge the gap between those two realities.

"Davenport."

His voice reached me before I had even stopped walking.

I turned, raising an eyebrow as he took a step closer, his team moving away toward the garage.

"Norris." I matched his tone, keeping my expression neutral even as my pulse betrayed me.

"You look... professional," he teased, eyes flicking over my McLaren-colored lanyard, the notebook in my hand.

"That is my job," I reminded him. "I take it you're still in yours?"

"Surprisingly, yes." His smirk deepened, but there was something else there—something heavier beneath the playful edge.

Neither of us spoke for a second, the noise of the paddock filling the silence between us.

We were standing too close.

Too close for two people who were supposed to be acting like nothing had changed.

Too close for two people who had spent the last few weeks tangled up in each other but were now expected to act as if it hadn't happened.

Lando shifted, running a hand through his hair. "So, how are we doing this?"

I tilted my head. "Doing what?"

"This." He gestured between us. "Are we pretending we don't know each other outside of this paddock? Or are we just gonna awkwardly hover like this every time we run into each other?"

I sighed, adjusting the notebook in my grip. "I think we just... be professional. Keep things separate."

He didn't respond right away, just looked at me, his green eyes unreadable. "Right. Professional."

"Exactly."

His tongue swiped over his bottom lip, and I forced myself not to stare. "You're good at that?"

"At what?"

"Keeping things separate."

I exhaled, rolling my eyes. "Better than you, clearly."

Lando laughed at that, shaking his head, but there was something knowing in his expression—like he wasn't entirely convinced I believed my own words.

Truthfully? I wasn't either.

I didn't have time to dwell on it, though, because an hour later, I was standing in the McLaren hospitality, mic in hand, waiting for him to arrive for media duties.

This was it.

The first test.

Could I really do this? Stand in front of him, ask him questions, act like I hadn't fallen asleep on his chest just a few nights ago?

I squared my shoulders as he approached, his PR manager following behind him.

He barely glanced at me at first, keeping his focus on the cameras.

"Lando, great to see you back after the summer break," I started, keeping my tone light, professional. "How are you feeling heading into the second half of the season?"

His lips twitched, but he answered smoothly. "Feeling good. It was nice to reset, but I'm ready to get back into it. The team's been working hard, and we're feeling optimistic."

Standard answer. No trouble.

I nodded. "You had a strong first half of the season—back in the title fight, multiple podiums. Do you feel the pressure shifting now that we're heading into the final stretch?"

His gaze flickered, just for a second, before he answered. "I think the pressure's always there, but that's part of the job. It's about managing it, keeping the focus on what we can control."

I pressed on, asking the usual questions about upgrades, race expectations, team goals.

He answered them all perfectly, never faltering, never breaking character.

But then, just as I was about to wrap up, his smirk returned.

"No personal questions today, Davenport?" he teased, voice just low enough that the mics might not catch it.

I held his gaze, tightening my grip on the mic. "Didn't think you wanted any."

His smirk widened, but before he could say anything else, his PR manager stepped in. "That's all for today, thanks Emilia."

I nodded, stepping back as the interview wrapped.

Lando gave me one last look before turning and walking away.

And just like that, it was over.

We had passed the test.

Barely.

As I turned back to my notes, pretending my heart wasn't still racing, I knew one thing for certain—

Keeping things separate was going to be a lot harder than I thought.