They didn’t see it.

They saw podiums. They saw smiles. They saw the joking, the memes, the helmets. But they didn’t see the nights I couldn’t breathe.

They didn’t see the hotel rooms where I sat in the shower fully clothed because I didn’t want to feel real. Or the nights I didn’t sleep because I was scared I’d wake up and still feel nothing.

But she did.

She saw me—really saw me—when I was empty. When the lights went out, when the noise stopped, when the world forgot I was more than a driver.

And she stayed.

She held me when I had nothing to give. She listened when I had no words. She loved me when I couldn’t love myself.

And that’s why I’m here. On this freezing night, outside the circuit where we first met, holding a ring in my shaking hands, trying not to fall apart.

Because it’s not just a proposal.

It’s a thank you. It’s a lifeline. It’s every single beat of my heart being placed into her hands.

She walks toward me, confused. "Lando? What are you—?"

But I don’t speak. Not yet. I drop to my knees—not to impress her, not because it’s tradition—but because it’s the only position I know when you’re in front of something that saved your life.

My voice is breaking, but I speak anyway.

“I didn’t think I’d make it to 25.”

She freezes.

“I didn’t think I’d be anything more than a number on a screen. A name people chanted. A face behind a visor.”

My throat tightens. The words come like blood.

“But you saw me. And you stayed. God, you stayed.”

She’s crying now. I feel the tears on her hands as she cups my face.

“I don’t need fireworks or crowds. I just need you. Every version. Every day. Every scar you kissed and every breath you gave me when I couldn’t breathe on my own.”

I open the box, and my voice shatters.

“Will you marry me?”