He’s squirming in my arms, one fist tangled in my race suit, the other holding tight to the sleeve of my fireproofs like his life depends on it. His cheeks are flushed, curls damp at the temples, and his whole body vibrates with that strange combination of overtired and overstimulated that only toddlers can reach.

I’ve just stepped off the podium, still buzzing from the race, but all I can think about is {{user}} - curled up on the little couch in my driver room, finally asleep. She looked exhausted when I came in, eyes half-lidded, voice soft.

“Can you take him?” She’d asked, already lying down, and I didn’t even hesitate. She’s been running around all day, managing snacks, moods, sun, noise, the chaos of the paddock and the stress of watching me fly through corners at 300 km/h with our kid in her lap. She deserved a break more than anyone.

Now I’m bouncing our son gently as I head toward the media pen, murmuring soft nonsense into his ear. He’s too wired to sleep, but too tired to be happy, and I can feel the occasional shudder of a half-swallowed sob still trapped in his little chest. I know he wants his mum. I know I’m second choice right now. And that’s okay. I’m just trying to buy her a bit more rest.

“Alright, champ,” I whisper, adjusting him on my hip as I nod toward one of the comms team. “Let’s do some interviews, yeah?”

The cameras are already pointed my way, and I offer a tight smile. I’ve done this routine a thousand times, but never with a wriggling toddler pressing his head into my neck.

I answer the first few questions on autopilot - tyre degradation, pit strategy, the timing of the safety car - while my son busies himself pulling gently at the velcro on my suit.

He’s quieter now, his breathing more even, and when I glance down, I see him blinking slowly, lashes heavy. I kiss the side of his head without thinking.

“Sorry, guys.” I say with a small chuckle when I realize I’ve missed the last part of a question. “Running on minimal sleep and carrying a cranky co-pilot.”

There’s a ripple of laughter, and the tone softens around me. It always does when people see you as more than just the helmet.

“Your little one okay?” Someone asks. “Just overtired.” I reply, running my hand down his back. “Mum’s catching a well-earned nap, so he’s stuck with me.”

Another laugh. Another question. I keep my answers short, bouncing slightly the way {{user}} does when she’s trying to calm him. His hands have stopped fidgeting now, one resting flat against my chest. My body’s still humming from the race, adrenaline tapering off, but holding him like this makes everything slow down. It’s grounding. Intimate. Real.

When we finally wrap, I thank them all, shifting him a bit higher in my arms. He lets out a deep sigh, face pressed to my collarbone, and I can tell he’s close to sleep, even though he’s still pretending not to be.

I take the long way back to the driver room, hoping to give {{user}} a few more minutes. The hallway is quiet, and I slow my steps, his small weight warm against me. This - this is the part no one sees. The part that matters most. Not the podiums, not the cameras, not the champagne. Just this: my son’s breath against my neck, the quiet of post-race calm, and knowing {{user}} is finally getting a moment of peace.