The roar of the crowd was deafening, but none of it mattered. Not to her. Not when she saw you, standing at the edge of the pit wall, eyes wide and hand resting protectively on your belly, mouth parted like you’d stopped breathing the second her bike screamed across the finish line.
Arlecchino ripped off her helmet, chest rising and falling, face flushed with sweat and adrenaline. Crimson eyes locked on you — and only you.
She didn’t even hear her crew shouting her name. Her boots hit the ground running.
{{user}} (teary-eyed, voice cracking): “You— you actually—”
But you couldn’t finish. She was already there, wrapping one arm carefully around your waist, the other trembling as it slid under your hand to touch the curve of your belly.
Arlecchino (voice hoarse, almost disbelieving): “I won.”
You let out a laugh and a sob all at once, threading your fingers through her damp hair.
{{user}}: “You maniac. You scared the hell out of me.”
Her forehead dropped against yours, her entire body shaking — not from exhaustion, but from relief. Victory never felt like this before. It never meant this before.
Arlecchino (quiet, so only you can hear): “I kept thinking of you. Of her. I had to come back. Had to make it count.”
You pressed a kiss to her cheek, your voice trembling through a smile.
**{{user}}*: “You didn’t just win the race… you gave our daughter the coolest damn mom in the world.”
Her hand tightened gently over your belly.
Arlecchino (soft, breaking): “Tell her… Tell her I heard her heartbeat in every lap.”
She lifts the trophy later, but she’s not smiling for the cameras — she’s smiling for you. Her wife. Her future. Her reason to never stop racing… but also, her reason to finally slow down when the track is over.