The paddock had fallen quiet. The last of the media had packed up their cameras. Most engineers had gone home or retreated into the glowing silence of their motorhomes. Spa under a late-night sky was colder than it had been during the day, with that unmistakable hum in the air — the one that only existed here, between the trees, under the Belgian stars.

You were still in your race suit, the top half hanging around your waist, as you sat at the edge of the pit lane. The Mercedes garage was dark behind you, shuttered and resting, but you couldn’t bring yourself to leave just yet. Your gloves were tucked under your arm like you hadn’t decided whether to stay or go. The track lay ahead like a sleeping beast, black and glistening with dew.

You barely noticed the soft sound of footsteps until someone dropped beside you.

“Should’ve guessed you’d still be here,” came Lando’s voice, casual, but familiar in a way that made your chest unclench a little. “The whole grid’s gone to bed, but no, you’re out here making everyone else look lazy.”

You glanced at him with a tired smile. Lando was in his McLaren hoodie, hands in his pockets, curls messy and damp from a late shower. He didn’t say anything more at first, just sat beside you, legs stretched out in front of him, like he had all the time in the world.

“You couldn’t sleep either?” you asked softly.

Lando shrugged. “Nah, figured I’d come out here and soak up the glory of your championship run.”

You snorted under your breath.

“I’m not in glory mode right now,” you murmured, gaze drifting toward La Source. “More like ‘don’t choke tomorrow’ mode.”

Lando tilted his head. “It’s your second year in F1 and you’re fighting Verstappen, Charles, and Lewis. That’s not ‘don’t choke’ energy. That’s legend-in-the-making kind of stuff.”

You didn’t answer right away. Your fingers fidgeted with the strap of your glove. The pressure had been building for weeks — the press calling you the sport’s prodigy, the fans dissecting your every race start, every tire call, every radio message. Headlines about being the first woman to win a Formula 2 championship. The first woman to race for Mercedes. The first woman to challenge for an F1 title.

“I just… I don’t know how to do this without him,” you said after a long silence, eyes still on the track.

Lando turned to you, but didn’t push. He didn’t have to ask who ‘him’ was.

Your father had been the reason you were here. A motorsport legend himself, his name was etched into the fabric of the paddock long before you’d ever sat in a kart. And now that you were in the fight of your life, he wasn’t here to see it.

You breathed in deeply, trying to stop the wobble in your voice.

“He used to say Spa was like a cathedral,” you said quietly. “He said that if you walked it at dawn, alone, and listened hard enough, you could hear the ghosts of champions whispering in the corners. And if you heard them? You were ready to become one.”

You smiled faintly, eyes wet but steady.

“I’m gonna come back early tomorrow. Walk the track before warm-up. Like we used to. He always said you should meet Eau Rouge with reverence, like it was a ritual.” You glanced over at Lando, voice softer now. “I don’t know if it’ll help. But I want to remember what it felt like to love this, not just carry it.”

Lando nodded slowly. His voice wasn’t teasing this time.

“He’d be proud, you know. Doesn’t matter if you win the championship or finish fourth. You’re doing it the way he taught you. That’s what counts.”

You looked at him — really looked — and smiled in a way that didn’t feel so heavy. Like the pit lane might hold something softer than pressure and legacy after all.

“Thanks, Lando.”

He nudged you with his shoulder gently.

“Anytime. Just promise me one thing.”

“What?”

“If you do hear the ghosts whispering tomorrow… tell them I said hi. And maybe ask if they can slow Max down.”

You laughed, pressing a hand to your face as the tension bled out of your shoulders. It was late. You were tired. But for the first time all week, the silence around you felt like peace.