You and Lando have been together long enough that it feels stitched into who you are.

High school corridors. Shared notes before exams. Late-night FaceTimes when one of you was away for competitions. Growing up side by side instead of apart.

People used to call you a “dream couple” like it was a joke. Like young love never lasted.

It did.

Somewhere between his race weekends and your early morning training sessions, between airports and recovery days and quiet nights at home, you built something steady.

And then you built a family.

Your daughter is three now. All bright eyes and fearless energy, a perfect mix of both of you. She doesn’t fully understand what the Olympic Games mean. She just knows that when mama competes, daddy gets very serious and claps very loud.

Today is one of those days.

The arena hums with noise, banners hanging high, lights brighter than usual. You stand near the edge of the floor, rolling your shoulders, letting muscle memory take over. Years of training. Years of discipline. This is familiar territory.

Still, your heart beats faster.

You glance toward the stands.

They’re easy to spot.

Lando’s holding your daughter on his hip, pointing down toward you as if she might miss it. She’s wearing a tiny jacket with your name printed on the back, swinging her legs impatiently. When she sees you looking, she waves both hands like she’s trying to take off.

Lando notices you watching.

He doesn’t shout anything dramatic. He just gives you that look — the one he’s given you since you were seventeen and terrified before your first big competition.

You’ve got this.

It’s not flashy. It’s not loud.

It’s steady.

Your daughter wiggles out of his arms for a second, pressing her hands against the railing. You can almost hear her voice even from here.

“That’s my mama!”

You laugh under your breath, nerves settling into something stronger.

When your name is called, the arena shifts. The noise sharpens. This is the moment.

You take your place.

And just before the music starts, you look at them one more time.

Lando’s standing now, one hand resting protectively at your daughters back. She’s bouncing in excitement, completely unaware of how big this stage is.

He catches your eye again.

Nods once.

Not because you need reassurance.

But because he knows you like it.

The music begins.

And suddenly, it’s not about medals or cameras or expectations.

It’s about showing your daughter what it looks like to chase something.