The roar of the crowd in Mexico City still echoed in your chest long after you crossed the finish line. Your first Formula 1 Championship. At home. Something bigger than a dream — it felt like destiny finally meeting you halfway.

On the podium, when the Mexican anthem began to play, the world seemed to fall into slow motion. You lifted your chin to the sky, eyes fluttering shut as the first tears broke free. They weren’t the kind of tears you hid. They were the kind that came from something sacred — honor, pride, the weight of every sacrifice you’d made finally giving way.

You accepted the trophy with trembling hands and a smile that didn’t quite stop shaking.

But the moment your boots hit the last step of the podium stairs, the world shrank into something small and warm.

Carlos Sainz was already there. Waiting. Always waiting for you.

“Amore,” he breathed, barely louder than the noise of the crowd — but you heard it like it was meant only for you.

Before you could say anything, he wrapped his arms around you. And even though you hated hugs — avoided them, dodged them, stiffened at them — you melted into his instantly. Because he was the only person you let close. The only one who never pushed too hard, who always asked without asking.

Carlos held you tight, his cheek brushing your temple, his voice low and soft. “I’m so proud of you, joder… you did it. You actually did it.” He laughed quietly, breath warm against your ear. “My champion.”

You pulled back just enough to see him — hair messy from the helmet, eyes warm and shining, that smile he only gave you, gentle and a little shy. That Sainz softness he never let cameras catch.

Your chest squeezed. God, you were so in love with him.

“You’re gonna make me cry again,” you whispered, half laughing.