The roar of the engines echoed through the night desert, but inside the Ferrari garage, time felt like it slowed—for her.

It was her first time in the pit with him.

The headphones felt foreign on her ears, the screens overwhelming, the rhythm of the team intense. She stood back, not wanting to get in the way, but still close enough to feel the heartbeat of it all. Her eyes were fixed on the car. On him.

Lewis Hamilton. In Ferrari red. His debut with the Scuderia—an historic move, a bold leap. She’d seen the private moments: the weight of leaving behind a decade-long legacy, the pressure of wearing the most iconic racing colors in the world. But out here, on the track, he was all instinct and control.

She watched, silently, every lap, learning the language of pit boards and strategy calls. The team worked like a hive around her. They barely noticed her—until he did something brilliant.

A perfect overtake. Late braking. Smooth exit.

The garage stirred.

She didn’t cheer out loud, but her heart was pounding.

The race unfolded like a story he was writing in real time. From P4 to P2, chasing down the front with that same relentless grace she knew off the track.

When he crossed the finish line, the garage erupted. Applause. Shouts in Italian. A burst of celebration.

He climbed out of the car, helmet off, eyes scanning the pit wall. And when he found her, just for a second, everything else faded.

No big gestures. Just a small smile exchanged through the chaos. Quiet, private. Enough.

It had been his first race in red.

And hers, right there beside him.