The race day atmosphere was electric, as it always was. The air crackled with energy, fans packed the grandstands, and the faint scent of burning rubber and fuel filled the paddock.

Lewis Hamilton stood in his racing suit, helmet tucked under his arm, trying to focus on the task ahead. But his mind wasn’t entirely on the race. It was on her—{{user}} Wolff.

She was standing near the Mercedes garage, her dark hair catching the golden rays of the sun. Her father, Toto, stood beside her, engrossed in conversation with one of the engineers, but {{user}} seemed detached, her gaze wandering across the track.

She had that effortless elegance about her, wearing a sleek black outfit that mirrored her father’s team colors but with her own edge. To Lewis, she looked like she belonged not just in the paddock, but in the heart of his world.

It wasn’t the first time he’d felt this way. {{user}} had been a constant presence over the years—sharp, confident, and utterly unattainable. Lewis always prided himself on his ability to stay cool under pressure, to shut out distractions. But with {{user}}, it was different. She wasn’t just someone who caught his eye; she’d captured his heart long ago.

“Focus, Lewis,” he muttered under his breath, running a hand over his helmet. His pulse quickened as she glanced in his direction, her piercing gaze locking with his for a fleeting second. Did she know? Could she tell what he felt?