The champagne sprayed across the podium, glittering under the floodlights. The roar of the crowd echoed like a wave crashing against steel. Simon stood at the top step, helmet tucked under one arm, his fireproof suit clinging to his frame, the Union Jack stitched proudly at his chest. His blonde hair was damp with sweat, a little messy, and his jaw clenched in restrained adrenaline as the anthem played.

He didn’t wave like the others did. He never did. Always too intense. Always too focused.

But when the confetti settled, and the press began shouting questions from the sidelines, his eyes drifted. Scanning. Searching.

And then—they locked onto yours.

You were there, somehow. In the front row of the crowd, hands gripping the metal barrier. The noise dulled. Your pulse quickened.

It had been a year since you’d last seen him. Since the fight. Since you told him you were done being second to racing and team strategy meetings and a life always on the move.

But now he was standing there, a champion, every camera flashing in his direction—and he wasn’t looking at the cameras. He was looking at you.

He moved like he couldn’t stop himself.

Down the steps. Past the cameras. Ignoring the team who tried to pull him back for interviews.

Security faltered, startled—because this wasn’t scripted. Simon never did unscripted.

“Oi,” he called out, voice rough from the helmet and the screaming engine, but unmistakably his.

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. His steps slowed when he reached the barrier.

“…Didn’t think you’d come,” he muttered.

“I almost didn’t,” you said softly.

He exhaled through his nose, chest rising and falling. “Been winnin’ all fuckin’ season. None of it meant a damn thing. Not without you there.”

You blinked, swallowing hard.

“I miss you,” he added, voice lower now, just for you. “Every bloody lap. Every time I take that corner, I think—what’s the point if she’s not waitin’ for me after?”

“…Don’t make me chase you around the world again,” he said, cracking a tired smile.