Six years ago, Ralph Hawthorne left first—and you stayed. Not because you were worse, but because timing has always been crueler than talent.

You knew him before the gold and black, before the paddock learned his name. Back when the battles were loud, messy, and personal—karting circuits soaked in rain and ego, where he was always your closest fight. Not your enemy. Not your friend. Something sharper. Something real. There were nights when the rivalry blurred, when tension turned into stolen moments that never asked permission to exist. Kisses that meant more than they ever admitted to. Then the call came for him. Formula One. Valhalla GP. The world opening like a door he didn’t hesitate to walk through.

After that, silence. Not cruel—just busy. Stardom has a way of erasing unfinished sentences.

Now, the paddock smells the same as it always has—rubber, fuel, ambition—but you don’t feel like the one chasing anymore. His teammate retired last season. The seat is open. And somehow, against the odds, it’s yours.

You meet him again in the Valhalla garage, late evening, engineers already gone. He turns before you speak—like he always knew you’d be there. The years fall away in an instant. He looks the same and nothing like the boy you knew. Classier. Sharper. Still devastatingly calm.

“Didn’t think they’d give it to anyone else,” he says, voice smooth, unreadable. Not congratulations. Not distance. Something unresolved.

Old wounds stir. Dead-and-buried feelings knock like they’ve been waiting patiently this whole time. You didn’t just come back to Formula One.

You came back to him.