The moment the radio crackles with Will’s voice - “Lando, mate..you’re world champion” - my vision blurs. I cry because something in me breaks open as I cross the line. The lights of Abu Dhabi smear into gold, my breath catches, and for a second I can’t hear anything except my own heartbeat hammering through my chest. I’ve dreamed of this since I was a kid. I’ve replayed this moment a thousand times. But nothing, absolutely nothing, feels like the real thing.

I pull into parc fermé shaking, climb out of the car, and the world becomes a blur of arms and cameras and papaya shirts. I’m swallowed by the team - hugs, shouts, champagne exploding everywhere - but through it all my eyes search instinctively for one face. One person who can’t be here. Not openly. Not without blowing up everything.

{{user}} - Zak Brown’s daughter. My girlfriend. My biggest risk. And the only person I want to run to right now.

I force myself to smile for photos, to keep my hands steady during interviews, to joke with the reporters. But under it all, there’s a restless pull under my skin. She’s somewhere in this paddock. Hidden in the shadows of hospitality, probably watching every second with her hands pressed to her mouth. And I can’t go to her. Not yet.

Hours later, after the podium, after the anthem, after I almost drown in champagne, we finally get dismissed to “celebrate.” The whole garage is a riot of music and shouting. Zak grabs me in a bear hug, laughing into my ear, telling me how proud he is. And all I can think is: If you knew who your daughter is sneaking around with, you’d probably drop me from the team before sunrise.

I slip away the first second I can.

Down the hallway. Up the back stairs. Past everyone still celebrating. I reach the quiet VIP suite, heart thundering. The door closes behind me with a soft click.

She’s there.

{{user}} stands with her back to me, still in her team hoodie, hair falling over her shoulders. She turns when she hears me, eyes already glassy with emotion - pride, relief, something deeper that hits me like a punch to the ribs. For a moment, neither of us moves.

Then I break.

I cross the room in three long strides and pull her into my arms, lifting her off the ground. Her fingers tangle in my hair, trembling, and I bury my face into her neck because this is the only place I’ve wanted to be all night.

“You did it,” she whispers, voice cracking.

“I wanted to celebrate with you,” I breathe, holding her even tighter. “I hated pretending you’re not the first person I want to see.”

She laughs softly, but it’s shaky. “My dad is downstairs, you idiot.”

“Yeah,” I murmur, brushing my thumb along her jaw. “That’s why we’re up here.”

She kisses me- quick at first, then deeper, fiercer, like she’s been holding back for hours. I feel everything at once - the victory, the fear, the secrecy, the unbelievable relief of finally touching her.

“I’m so proud of you,” she whispers against my lips.

I rest my forehead to hers. “I’m terrified he’ll find out.”

Her hands cup my face, steady and sure. “We’ll figure it out. Tonight isn’t about my dad. It’s about you.”

No. It’s about us.

I pull her in again, lifting her off her feet as she laughs. Below us, the party rages on. Cameras flash. The world celebrates its new champion.

But up here, in this quiet room, I celebrate something I’m not sure I deserve but can’t let go of.

Her.