Physical Touch
Summary: You're not used to having a boyfriend that is into PDA
Song: STAY · Justin Bieber
Author’s note: Please like, reblog and share this! 🫶
Word count: 4.0k
MASTERLIST - F1
The paddock air always smelled the same—a sharp, metallic cocktail of high-octane fuel, expensive espresso, and the frantic, buzzing energy of three hundred people trying to move in a space designed for fifty.
It was a sensory overload you had grown accustomed to over the last four years, but even with the familiarity, the weight of the cameras and the prying eyes of the media never quite ceased to feel like a spotlight burning against your skin.
You walked beside Lando, your hands tucked firmly into the pockets of your team hoodie.
You were doing your best to keep up with his quick, rhythmic stride, his McLaren team kit a bright papaya blur against the charcoal gray background of the hospitality units.
"You're quiet," Lando said, not breaking his pace. He didn't look at you, his eyes scanning the horizon of the Silverstone paddock, but you felt the subtle shift in his demeanor.
It was the Lando-radar—he always knew when your mood dipped, even if you were masking it with the practiced cool of a driver’s partner.
"Just tired," you lied. It wasn’t a lie, exactly. You were exhausted, but it was the kind of exhaustion that came from being ‘on’ for seventy-two hours straight.
Without warning, Lando stopped. He didn’t just slow down; he pivoted on his heel, effectively blocking your path. Before you could react, his arm was around your waist, pulling you flush against him.
It was a casual, possessive movement, the kind that reminded everyone watching—and there were always people watching—that you were his.
You stiffened, your hands instinctively coming up to push against his chest. "Lando," you hissed, your voice low. "People are taking photos. Right there."
You gestured vaguely toward a group of fans pressed against the metal fencing, phones already held high like digital offerings. Lando didn’t even glance at them. Instead, he ducked his head, his nose brushing against your temple, his breath warm against your ear.
"Let them," he murmured, his voice laced with that mischievous, boyish charm that had stolen your heart in the first place. He squeezed your waist, his grip firm and grounding. "I haven't seen you all morning. You’ve been busy with PR, I’ve been in the sim. I’m allowed to say hello."
"You said hello at breakfast," you countered, though your heart was performing a treacherous little somersault in your chest.
"That was two hours ago," he insisted, finally pulling back just enough to look at you. His hazel eyes were bright, lit with a spark of genuine affection that softened the sharp lines of his face. He reached up, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb lingering on your cheekbone. "I missed you."
You didn't know how to handle it. After four years, you still didn't. You were a person of quiet gestures—notes left on bathroom mirrors, shared silences while watching movies, holding hands when the lights were out.
You weren't a ‘public display’ person. The vulnerability of being seen in private, intimate moments—even something as simple as a touch—felt like undressing in a crowded room.
Lando, however, had spent his entire adult life under a microscope. He had learned that if you’re going to be watched anyway, you might as well control the narrative. If he wanted to hold your hand, he held it. If he wanted to pull you close, he did it without hesitation, regardless of the cameras.
"Come on," he said, shifting his grip from your waist to your hand, interlacing his fingers with yours. He started walking again, pulling you along with him, his pace unbothered by the stares.
The rest of the morning was a blur of briefings and team meetings. You found yourself retreating to the back of the McLaren garage, watching the mechanics work on the MCL38.
It was a beautiful, terrifying machine, and you often felt like you were just a spectator to a life you were only partially living.
When the session ended and the drivers began to filter out, you saw Lando heading your way. He looked winded, a sheen of sweat on his forehead, his hair a chaotic mess beneath his cap.
When he spotted you, his entire face transformed. The intense, focused ‘racer’ expression melted into a wide, effortless grin.
He didn't head for the engineers or the debriefing area. He walked straight to you, ignoring the team principal standing five feet away, and wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in the crook of your neck.
"God," he groaned, his voice muffled by your hoodie. "I need a coffee before I throw a headset through a wall."
"That sounds like a productive way to spend the afternoon," you teased, though you reached up, patting his back awkwardly. Your eyes darted around the garage. Several mechanics were snickering, and the telemetrics lead was pointedly looking at his tablet.
Lando pulled back, his hands resting on your shoulders now. He looked down at you, his thumb tracing the skin of your neck. "Come to the hospitality with me? Please? I need a witness so I don't punch something."
"I have emails to catch up on," you started, but he was already shaking his head before you finished.
"Emails can wait. You’re coming with me." He didn’t bother asking twice. He took your hand again, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a rhythmic, comforting pattern.
As you walked through the paddock, he kept his hand firmly clutched in yours, occasionally swinging them between you like a couple of teenagers.
It was almost nauseatingly domestic, and it made your skin crawl in a way that had nothing to do with him and everything to do with the spectators.
"Lando," you said, once you reached the relative privacy of the McLaren hospitality tent. You ducked into a quiet corner near the coffee machine. "Could you… maybe not?"
He paused, a cup of black coffee halfway to his mouth. He looked at you, genuinely confused. "Not what?"
"The… the touching. The holding hands in the paddock. The leaning on me when there are twenty cameras pointed at us."
He tilted his head, his expression earnest. "Why? Does it bother you?"
"It’s not that it bothers me," you said, choosing your words carefully. You didn't want to hurt him, but you needed him to understand. "It’s… it’s just that I’m not used to it. Private things should stay private. I feel like we’re performing when we do that."
Lando set the cup down. He moved into your space, his presence filling the corner. He didn't touch you this time, which felt strangely more intimate than the public displays. He looked at you, his eyes searching yours.
"I’m not performing," he said softly. "I’m just… I’m proud. You’re my person. You’ve been my person for four years. Through the podiums, the crashes, the bad races, the move to Monaco. You’re the only thing that makes any of this feel real."
He took a step closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. "I don’t want to hide you. I don't want to act like you're some secret I’m keeping in a drawer. If I want to hold your hand, I want to hold your hand because I like the way your skin feels against mine. I don't care about the cameras. I don't care about the fans. I care about how I feel when I’m with you."
"That’s very sweet," you said, your throat tight. "But you know how people talk. They dissect everything. They look for meaning in where you put your hand or how you look at me. It’s exhausting."
"Let them talk," Lando countered, a glint of defiance in his eyes. "Let them dissect. They don't know us. They don't know the late nights, or the way you make tea, or the way you handle me when I’m losing my mind after a DNF. They’re just observers. We’re the ones living it."
He reached out, tentatively this time, covering your hand with his. "I’m not asking you to change who you are. I’m just telling you why I am the way I am. For me, the PDA… it’s a way of tethering myself to you. In a world that’s always moving, you’re the only thing that stands still. I just want to make sure I’m always touching that anchor."
You looked at him—really looked at him. You saw the layers of the man the world saw as a race driver, but you also saw the man beneath. The one who was lonely at the top, the one who navigated the pressures of fame by clinging to the few things that were genuine.
"I’m an anchor?" you asked, a small smile tugging at your lips.
He grinned, the tension breaking. "You’re the best anchor. A little bit stubborn, maybe, and you complain about the cameras too much, but you’re definitely the anchor."
He leaned forward, his forehead resting against yours. It was a soft, gentle moment, a stark contrast to the chaos just outside the tent.
"I’ll try," you whispered. "To be… less bothered by it."
"You don't have to change," he insisted, pulling back to look at you. "Just know that when I do it, it isn't for the cameras. It’s for me. And hopefully, it’s for you, too."
The rest of the weekend was a learning curve.
When you walked through the paddock on Saturday morning, Lando’s arm was around your waist again. The inevitable cameras clicked, but this time, you didn't stiffen. You didn't try to pull away.
You looked up at him, and he smiled down at you, and for a fleeting second, the cameras didn't exist. There was just the two of you, moving through a crowded space, anchored to each other.
You realized that perhaps you had been looking at it wrong the whole time. You had viewed the PDA as a performance for the world, but Lando viewed it as a statement to himself. It was a way of claiming his own reality in an environment that was designed to be artificial.
By Sunday, the atmosphere was thick with the tension of the race. The drivers were in ‘the zone,’ quiet and focused. You spent most of the morning in the motorhome, catching up on those emails you’d ignored.
A few hours before the race, there was a knock on your door.
Lando stood there, his race suit unzipped to his waist, his hair slicked back with sweat from his warm-up. He looked pale and intense, the adrenaline already beginning to surge through his system.
"Hey," he said, his voice quiet.
"Hey. You okay?"
He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. He didn’t go to the sofa. He didn’t pace. He walked straight to you, pulled you into a crushing embrace, and just held you. He didn't speak. He just rested his chin on the top of your head, his breathing deep and rhythmic.
This was the PDA that no one saw. This was the vulnerable, quiet reality.
"I’m nervous," he admitted finally, his voice barely a murmur.
"You’re always nervous before the start," you reminded him, rubbing circles into his back.
"I know. But today feels… different. I just wanted to see you one last time before I have to go be 'Lando Norris' for three hours."
He pulled back, searching your face. He kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips—a lingering, soft touch that tasted of nervous energy and deep, abiding love. When he pulled away, he kept his hands on your face, his thumbs stroking your jawline.
"See you after?" he asked.
"Always," you promised.
He smiled, a genuine, soft expression that belonged only to you. He turned to leave, walking with a renewed sense of purpose, his shoulders squared, his head held high.
As he walked out, you realized you hadn't even thought about who was watching. You hadn't felt the need to hide, or to be ‘proper,’ or to worry about how the world perceived your love.
You watched him go, feeling the quiet hum of his presence still lingering in the room. You realized that Lando was right. The world could look, they could stare, they could dissect every interaction until there was nothing left.
But they would never understand the alchemy of it—the way you held each other together, the way his hand in yours wasn't about the show, but about the connection.
When you walked out of the motorhome to head to the garage, you saw him ahead of you, walking with his team. He stopped at the entrance, turned around, and scanned the crowd until his eyes locked onto yours.
He didn't wave. He didn't seek attention. He just gave you a small, almost imperceptible nod—a silent acknowledgment, a secret language that only the two of you spoke.
You nodded back, a smile playing on your lips.
The cameras were still there, the paddock was still screaming with noise, and the pressure was still building.
But as you made your way through the crowd, you didn't feel the need to hide. You kept your head high, your pace steady.
When you reached the garage, Lando was already in the cockpit. You stood by the wall, watching the mechanics scramble. You felt someone standing next to you—another driver's partner, someone you’d spoken to a few times.
"He looks focused today," she said, nodding toward the car.
You watched his helmeted head, the way he was checking the steering wheel settings, his movements precise and calm.
"He is," you said, a sense of pride swelling in your chest.
As the cars began to move, the noise became deafening. You reached out, gripping the safety rail. A hand covered yours. You looked down—it was Lando’s trainer, a man you’d known for years, offering a silent gesture of support.
You squeezed his hand. You weren't holding Lando’s hand, but you felt the connection, the web of people who loved him, who supported him, who were tethered to him.
The race went well. It was a grueling, tactical battle, but you watched every lap, every overtake, every moment of brilliance. When he crossed the finish line—a solid P3, a hard-fought battle—you felt a surge of relief that hit you like a physical wave.
When he finally made his way back to the pit lane, the adrenaline was high, the fans were screaming, and the cameras were desperate to capture his reaction.
You were in the ‘cool down’ room, waiting. When he burst in, tossing his helmet onto the table, he looked ecstatic. He was drenched in sweat, his lungs laboring for air, his face glowing with raw, unadulterated joy.
He spotted you immediately.
He didn't run to his team, he didn't check his phone, he didn't wait for the cameras. He bypassed everything and everyone, closed the distance between you, and wrapped his arms around you, lifting you off your feet.
You laughed, the sound bright and clear in the small room. He spun you around, his face pressed into your shoulder, his heart hammering against your own.
"We did it," he breathed, his voice ragged with exertion.
He didn't care about the producers behind the glass, didn't care about the microphones picking up his breathing, didn't care about the optics of a driver being ‘soft’ after a podium. He just held you, his hands tight against your back, his head resting on your shoulder.
"You did it," you whispered back, holding him just as tightly.
He pulled back, his face inches from yours. He was glowing, his hazel eyes wide and bright. He didn't let go of your waist. He didn't try to pull away to talk to the team. He just stood there, his forehead resting against yours, taking a moment to breathe you in.
"That was for you," he whispered, a smirk touching his lips.
"The race?" you teased.
"Everything," he said. "The race, the fight, the waiting. Everything is for you."
You smiled, the last of your resistance melting away. You realized then that the PDA wasn't about him being dramatic or needy; it was his way of saying, ‘this is my center.’ It was his way of remaining human in a world designed to strip humanity away.
You reached up, brushing the damp hair from his forehead, your touch lingering on his skin. You didn't care about the cameras anymore. You didn't care about the optics.
"You're a menace," you whispered.
"I know," he said, his grin widening. "But I'm your menace."
He leaned in, his lips brushing yours in a soft, fleeting kiss before pulling back to see the effect it had on you. You didn't shy away. You held his gaze, your hand moving to rest on his chest, feeling the steady, strong rhythm of his heart beneath the papaya suit.
"We have to go out there," he said, nodding toward the door where the interviews were waiting.
"I know," you replied.
"Stay close?" he asked, his hand finding yours, his fingers interlacing with yours in that familiar, grounding way.
"Always," you said.
He squeezed your hand, a firm, reassuring gesture, and turned toward the door. As he walked out, he didn't let go. He didn't try to look composed for the cameras.
He just walked out, dragging you along with him, his hand in yours, his heart laid open for the world to see, and you didn't pull away.
For the first time in four years, you didn't feel like you were performing. You felt like you were exactly where you were meant to be—right by his side, anchored in the eye of the storm, holding onto the one thing that made all the chaos worth it.
The lights of the paddock hit you as you walked out, the noise rising to a crescendo, but you barely heard it.
You were focused on the steady, rhythmic pulse of his hand in yours, the physical tether that connected you to him, through every race, every win, every defeat, and every quiet moment in between.
As Lando greeted the reporters, he didn't pull his hand away. He kept it firmly in yours, a silent, defiant, and beautiful declaration. You stood beside him, watching him speak, realizing that for all the years you’d spent worried about the world, you had missed the most important lesson of all: that when you’re with the right person, the world doesn't matter.
Only the anchor does.
The weeks that followed brought a series of races, each one a different challenge, but the dynamic between you had shifted, subtly but fundamentally.
You were in Singapore, the humidity so thick it felt like a heavy, wet blanket pressing against your skin. The heat in the paddock was stifling, the noise of the city reflected off the glass buildings, echoing in the narrow walkways.
Lando was exhausted. The jet lag, the heat, the relentless schedule—it was wearing him down. You found him late on Saturday night, sitting on the steps of the motorhome, his head in his hands. He looked defeated.
You didn't say anything. You just sat down beside him, your shoulder brushing against his. He didn't look up, but his hand found yours, his grip tight, almost desperate.
"It’s just… it’s been a lot lately, hasn't it?" he said, his voice quiet, barely audible over the hum of the cooling units.
"It has," you agreed, leaning into him.
He leaned his weight against you, a silent plea for support. You sat there for a long time, the only movement the shifting of your hands as you rubbed his palm, his breathing slowly steadying as he leaned into your presence.
A group of team members walked past, casting curious glances in your direction. A few weeks ago, you would have pulled away. You would have felt the heat of the embarrassment rising in your cheeks.
But tonight, you didn't. You kept your hand in his, your body pressed against his side, a silent, unified front.
Lando shifted, turning toward you and resting his head on your shoulder. He sighed, a long, shaky sound. "I don't know what I'd do without you here."
"You’d do just fine," you said, your voice soft. "You’re Lando Norris. You thrive on this."
"I thrive on the racing," he corrected, looking up at you with tired, genuine eyes. "The rest of it… the travel, the lights, the expectations… that’s just noise. You’re the only thing that isn't noise."
He reached out, his hand cupping your cheek, his touch tender and vulnerable.
"I know I’m a lot," he said, a self-deprecating smile on his lips. "I know I’m clingy. I know the PDA is probably annoying for you."
"It’s not annoying," you admitted, the words feeling true for the first time. "It’s… it’s a lot to get used to. Especially with everyone watching."
"I know," he said, his thumb brushing your temple. "I don't mean to put pressure on you. I just… I need to know you’re still there. I need to feel like I’m anchored to something real, even when everything around me is drifting."
You looked at him, feeling the weight of the last four years—the highs, the lows, the moments of profound isolation, and the moments of intense, shared joy.
You realized that you and Lando weren't just a couple; you were a unit, a team of two navigating a life that few people could ever truly understand.
"You’re always anchored to me," you said, your voice steady. "I’m not going anywhere."
He smiled, a genuine, soft expression that belonged only to you. He leaned in, his forehead resting against yours, the heat of the night forgotten.
"Promise?"
"Promise."
He closed his eyes, a sense of peace finally settling over him. He didn't move away, and you didn't pull back. You just sat there, two people against the world, holding onto each other in the quiet, humid dark.
The final race of the season was in Abu Dhabi. The air was cool, the track lights shining brightly against the darkening sky. The energy was electric, a mix of anticipation and the bittersweet end of a long, grueling year.
You stood in the garage, watching the final preparations. Lando was calm, focused, a version of himself you’d come to cherish—the man who knew exactly what he was doing and exactly how much he was loved.
When he finally pulled his helmet off after the post-race debrief, he caught your eye across the garage.
He didn't wait. He walked straight to you, ignoring the cameras, the reporters, and the team members. He pulled you into a hug that felt like coming home.
"We made it," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.
"We made it," you echoed.
He pulled back, his hands resting on your waist, his eyes bright with that familiar, boyish spark. "So, what are we doing for the off-season?"
You laughed, the sound light and free. "I’m taking you somewhere quiet. Somewhere with no cameras, no paddock, and absolutely zero motor racing."
He grinned, the expression wide and genuine. "Sounds perfect."
He leaned in, his lips meeting yours in a kiss that was both a celebration and a promise—a promise of more to come, of more years spent side-by-side, navigating the noise, the pressure, and the chaos, together.
As you walked out into the paddock, the lights overhead shimmering like stars, he didn't let go of your hand. He held it firmly, his fingers interlaced with yours, his presence a constant, grounding rhythm against your own.
You looked up at him, the man you’d chosen, the man who had chosen you. You realized you didn't care about the cameras, the fans, or the prying eyes. You didn't care about the performance of it all.
You only cared about the person holding your hand, the person who made all the noise feel like silence, and the person who made you feel, for the first time in four years, like you were finally exactly where you were supposed to be.
"I love you," you whispered, the words coming easily, naturally, a truth that didn't need to be spoken to be felt.
Lando smiled, a soft, radiant look that belonged only to you. He squeezed your hand, a firm, reassuring gesture, and pulled you a little tighter against his side.
"I love you too," he said, his voice low and steady. "Now, let’s go start that vacation."
And as you walked away, deeper into the night, you didn't look back.
You just walked forward, hand in hand, anchored to each other, ready for whatever the next season—and the rest of your lives—would bring. . . .
