People always say you don’t realize what you have until it’s gone. But that’s not true. Sometimes, you realize it when it’s right in front of you, laughing at your terrible jokes, stealing your hoodie, and making your life infinitely better without even trying.

That’s how it was with her.

We had been friends forever—long before Formula 1, before McLaren, before any of this became my reality. She was just her. The one who kept me grounded when everything felt like too much, who reminded me that I was more than my results, who treated me the same whether I finished P1 or DNF’d.

And somewhere along the way, I started wanting more.

The problem? I had no idea if she felt the same way.

“You’re being weird,” she says now, poking my arm with a fry. We’re sitting in my hotel room, post-race, food containers scattered between us. “You’ve barely insulted my taste in food today. Are you sick?”

I force a laugh. “Nah. Just thinking.”

She narrows her eyes. “That’s dangerous.”

I shove her lightly, and she grins, but there’s something about the way she looks at me that makes my pulse stutter. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking, but for a second, it feels like she knows. Like she’s waiting for me to say something.

I take a deep breath. “What if I told you I liked someone?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Then I’d tell you to stop being cryptic and just say her name.”

I hesitate. “What if it’s… you?”

She lets out a short, breathless laugh. “Lando, be serious. Just say her name.”

I hold her gaze, my heart pounding. “I just did.”

She blinks. “What?”

I swallow hard, a small smile tugging at my lips. “{{user}}. It’s you. It’s always been you, my cute idiot.”