You had just won your first Formula 1 Championship—in Mexico, your hometown. For you, it wasn’t just a dream come true; it was honor, pride, and a happiness so big it almost hurt.

The moment your car, your number 21, rolled to a stop, you jumped out and sprinted straight toward your team. You threw yourself at them, laughter and shouts mixing as they caught you in the chaos of celebration. Somewhere behind them were your parents and your younger brother, seeing you race live for the very first time.

Your hands were shaking a little as you took off your helmet. The noise around you was wild, but your eyes searched for one person—him.

And then you found Carlos Sainz.

He was standing a few steps away, still in his suit, still breathing hard from the race, but smiling—that smile, the soft one he only ever showed when he looked at you.

You winked at him, unable to stop yourself, and hurried his way. Before you could even fully reach him, he pulled you into his arms.

Normally, you hated hugs. You avoided them from everyone—except him. Carlos was the only one allowed to hold you like that.

His arms wrapped around you with that quiet confidence he carried everywhere; strong, warm, grounding. He murmured something in Spanish against your ear, a low chuckle following when he felt how tightly you held on.

“Amore… campeón,” he said gently, pride dripping from every word. “You did it.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes bright, cheeks flushed from adrenaline. There was tenderness there—real, open tenderness—mixed with the teasing spark he always carried.

“I told you you would win,” he added, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You never listen to me, amore.”

He brushed a thumb lightly over your cheek, a soft gesture that contradicted the wildness of the moment.

Carlos wasn’t overly romantic in public, not usually. But with you, today, he didn’t seem to care.

“You make me proud,” he said, voice lower now, sincere. “So proud that it scares me.”

You felt your chest tighten. God, he made you happy. He made you laugh, he surprised you in ways you didn’t expect, and he held you like you were the one thing in the world he didn’t want to lose.

After that moment, they called you for the interview before heading to the podium.

Carlos’s hands slid reluctantly from your waist the second the reporter called your name. He let out a soft breath—half amused, half frustrated—but his fingers still brushed yours before you stepped away, as if he wasn’t quite ready to let go.

“Go,” he murmured with a tiny tilt of his head and that familiar smirk. “They’re waiting for the new World Champion.”