You wanted to be in Austria.

Swore you would be—until your cousin’s engagement party landed on the same weekend and your mom hit you with the classic: “You can scream at race cars any weekend. This is family.”

So now you were stuck at home, on the couch, in a living room packed with relatives—half of whom had no clue what DRS was meanwhile tge other half just liked saying “we know him” every five minutes like it was a competition.

“That’s him, right? Your Lando?” your aunt asked for the fourth time, pointing dramatically at the TV.

“Yes, thats literally him. The one in first place.”

Your cousin leaned in, chewing on a breadstick. “Wait, is Oscar the one who posts thirst traps?”

“No, that’s Charles,” you muttered, barely looking away. “Oscar’s the one trying to snatch the win.”

“Does he hate Lando?” someone else asked.

“He’s his teammate!”

“But like-“

You whipped around. “GUYS—PLEASE—I need silence.”

Lando blocked clean. You leapt off the couch.

“GO BABY—OH MY GOD—”

Your grandma turned to your father “she gets her nerves from you.”

By Lap 60, you were pacing, gripping a pillow, muttering prayers. The entire family had gone quiet. Even the skeptical ones were leaning in.

And then—he crossed the line. P1.

You shrieked. Someone started clapping. Your mom got emotional. “What a sweet young man”

Your phone buzzed right after the podium.

Lando: u watched??

You: Watched?? They’re gonna give me a heart attack before Silverstone. You were a beast. I almost cried.

He sent a photo—drenched in champagne, cheeks flushed, grinning like a kid with a trophy.

Lando: didn’t feel the same without u trackside silverstone? u yelling in the crowd again?

You laughed, wiping your eyes.

You: Book the ticket. I’m bringing the whole family next time.