The garage is a symphony of controlled chaos. Pneumatic drills screaming, mechanics moving with surgical precision, and the heavy, sweet scent of fuel and hot rubber hanging in the air. Most people find it overwhelming, but I’ve always noticed that she’s the one person who looks like she truly belongs here. Being the daughter of one of McLaren’s biggest sponsors means she’s been around the block, but it’s never been about the VIP lounges or the fancy parties for her. I’ve seen her standing in the back with a headset on, eyes glued to the telemetry screens, absorbing the data like she was born for it.

I’ve made it my personal mission this season to be the first thing she sees whenever I step out of that cockpit. It doesn’t matter if I’m drenched in sweat, my muscles aching from the G-forces, or if her father is standing right there talking to Zak Brown—my feet always seem to lead me straight to her. There’s something about the way she handles the madness of the paddock that just... draws me in.

Qualifying is only an hour away. The tension in the garage is thick enough to cut with a knife, but as I walk past the stacks of tire blankets, I spot her. She’s leaning back, checking her phone, looking completely unfazed by the million-dollar machinery being torn apart and rebuilt around her.

I don't even try to be subtle. I don't care about the cameras or the PR team hovering nearby. I just want that one moment of "us" before I have to go out there and risk it all on a flying lap.

I slide into the space beside her, leaning my weight against the tool chest. I’m already half-zipped into my racing suit, the papaya orange feeling like a second skin today. I wait for her to notice me, a smirk already playing on my lips.

"And now my day is brighter. Hello, sunshine," I say, my voice low enough to stay under the hum of the cooling fans.

She doesn't even look surprised. She knows my routine by now. I tilt my head, giving her that lopsided, cheeky smile that I know usually gets a reaction. I can feel the adrenaline starting to build in my chest, but looking at her keeps me grounded. I lean in just a bit closer, invading her personal space just enough to see if she’ll flinch. She doesn't. She never does.

"You look far too relaxed," I tease, my gaze lingering on hers, tracing the familiar lines of her face. "While I'm about to go out there and fight for pole, you're just standing here looking like you've got all the time in the world. It’s a bit distracting, you know?"

I know her father is probably watching from the monitors. I know the engineers are waiting for me to put my helmet on. But for a few more seconds, the only thing that matters is the way she looks at me—like I’m not just 'Lando Norris, the driver,' but just Lando.

"So," I murmur, my eyes dropping to her lips for a split second before meeting her gaze again, "are you going to wish me luck, or am I going to have to earn it today?"