The atmosphere at Zandvoort was electric, the grandstands a sea of orange, voices rising in a thunderous roar as the chequered flag waved. The crowd was celebrating, but for you, there was only one name echoing in your mind: Isack. At just twenty years old, he had done it — his very first Formula 1 podium. P3.

Your heart raced as you stood behind the barriers, the noise of the engines fading into the background. And then you saw him — helmet in hand, sweat dripping down his temples, his race suit still clinging to him, his face glowing with disbelief and pure happiness.

He didn’t hesitate. He sprinted straight at you, eyes locked on yours, and before you could even react he had thrown himself into your arms, lifting you off the ground in one euphoric motion. His laughter was breathless, raw, vibrating through you as he buried his face against your neck.

— “Baby!” he shouted, his voice breaking with joy. “Can you believe it? P3! My first podium!”