Thanks to Norris

part 60- secret

Spa.

It had always been my favorite—fast, technical, a little bit wild in a way that felt honest. The track had character. Soul. And judging by the buzz online, the fans agreed. Something about Spa always hit different. Maybe it was the unpredictability. Maybe it was the history.

Or maybe, this year, it was because he would be there too.

I arrived on Wednesday, the air already buzzing with quiet anticipation. The weather was suspiciously good for Spa—cloudy, sure, but dry. For now.

My manager walked ahead, checking us in at the hotel front desk while I stood back, adjusting the strap of my bag and glancing around the lobby. It was one of those sleek, modern places near the paddock. The kind where drivers, media, and managers all crossed paths pretending not to notice one another.

But then I felt it—that familiar prickle. The kind of awareness that only comes from knowing someone's presence before seeing them.

I turned my head just slightly, and there he was.

Lando.

Behind me in line, wearing a hoodie, backpack slung low, cap pulled down just enough to make him look casual—but I could still see the curl of his mouth when he realized I'd spotted him.

Our eyes met.

And for a second, the whole lobby dimmed.

We didn't say anything. Didn't wave. Didn't hug. No dramatic reunion.

Just a shared smile.

Quiet, knowing, private.

It lasted only a few seconds, but it said everything that didn't need to be said out loud: I'm glad you're here. I've missed you too. We're okay.

From the day he left to now, we'd been texting constantly. Some days it was nonstop—memes, jokes, random thoughts at midnight. Other times it was quiet, but always intentional. It felt easy again, natural. Like we'd carved out a space for each other between the noise of the world.

Still, that silent smile in the hotel lobby felt like the first real confirmation that none of it had been imagined. That whatever had started to shift between us was actually happening.

He stepped forward when it was his turn to check in, and I turned away to follow my manager to the elevator. I didn't look back, but I could feel the burn of his eyes on my back until the doors closed.

Spa was just beginning.
The race weekend hadn't even started.

But already, something told me this one wouldn't be like the others.

About ten minutes after I got to my room and kicked off my shoes, my phone buzzed. I was still unpacking—half my clothes tossed on the bed, the other half hanging off the back of a chair like they'd just barely made it through customs.

It was him.

Lando:
Didn't know silence could say that much.
Room number?

My heart thudded. Not from nerves—at least, not the bad kind. Just that quiet rush that always came with him lately. Like a reminder that something real was building again, piece by piece.

I stared at the screen for a second before typing back.

Me:
604. Door's open.

Less than five minutes later, there was a knock anyway—two short taps, then the soft creak of the door easing open.

He stepped inside like he'd been here before, like it hadn't been months since we shared the same space outside of airports or faceless paddocks.

"Hey," he said, almost shy.