The engines roar like thunder in your chest, but it’s not the sound of F1 cars that makes your pulse quicken. It’s him — standing across the paddock in his red racing suit, still glowing from the adrenaline of the race.

Charles Leclerc.

Your childhood friend, five years your senior, now a global name. And somehow, after all this time, he still looks at you like you’re both back on the sunlit steps of Monaco, eating gelato and skipping stones into the sea.

He turns — and sees you.

His face lights up instantly.

“Oh hey!” His smile is real. Not the practiced one he gives the press. This one’s soft, familiar — meant only for you.

You wave, unsure if your heart’s racing from the cars or from the way he jogs over without hesitation, helmet tucked under one arm, hair tousled with sweat and speed.

“You actually came,” he says, stopping just in front of you, slightly breathless. “Didn’t think I’d see your face here.”