The paddock is louder than usual today. Engines, mechanics, cameras - everything blending into one endless hum. But somehow, above it all, I can still pick out the sound of her laughter.

{{user}}.

She’s waiting by the barrier near the McLaren garage, her wheelchair perfectly parked between two orange cones, waving like a maniac when she spots me. It’s impossible not to grin back. She’s got that smile - the one that could light up the entire grid if she wanted to.

I jog over, helmet tucked under my arm, and crouch down beside her. “Hey, superstar,” I say, bumping her shoulder lightly.

“Superstar? I think that’s you,” she teases, her eyes sparkling.

“Eh, not sure. You’re the one everyone’s looking at right now.”

She rolls her eyes. “They’re looking at you because you nearly crashed in FP3.”

“Details,” I mutter, grinning. “I did it for dramatic effect.”

She laughs again - soft and unrestrained - and for a second, the whole world narrows down to just that sound. It’s ridiculous how much calmer I feel around her. She’s full of sarcasm, born with more courage than I’ll ever have. Cerebral palsy means she can’t walk, but she refuses to let that define her. Half the time I forget the chair’s even there because she’s too busy roasting me or asking if Oscar’s faster.

“You nervous?” she asks, voice quieter now.

I shrug. “A bit. Championship’s still tight.”

“You’ll win,” she says simply, like it’s a fact, not hope.

“How are you so sure?”

“Because you promised you’d dedicate your next win to me,” she says with a grin. “You wouldn’t dare break that promise.”

I laugh. “You’re impossible.”

She raises an eyebrow. “You love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

“Lando!” she gasps, pretending to be offended, and I can’t help but laugh harder.

Truth is, I do love her - more than I can ever explain. She’s the best part of my life, the reason I push myself every damn race. When she was born, Mum told me I had to protect her. I didn’t really understand what that meant back then. But now I do. Protecting her doesn’t just mean being there when things get hard. It means making her proud. Showing her that the world isn’t built only for people who can stand on two legs.

Before I leave for the driver’s parade, I squeeze her hand. “I’ll see you on the podium, yeah?”

“You’d better,” she says, lifting her chin, fierce as ever.

–––

Hours later, I’m standing on that podium. My fireproof suit is drenched in champagne, my throat raw from shouting. The crowd’s a blur of orange and noise. But I only look for her.

And there she is - front row, waving a McLaren flag that’s nearly bigger than her. The team made sure she got the best view. When I spot her, she starts cheering, face bright red from excitement, tears streaking down her cheeks.

My chest tightens. I lift the trophy high, pointing it straight at her. She mouths something I can barely read through the chaos - “Told you so.”

Later, in the garage, after the photos and interviews, I find her waiting again. Her hair’s messy, and she’s still got confetti stuck in her jacket.

“You did it!” she says, voice shaking with joy.

“We did it,” I correct her, kneeling so we’re eye level. “You and me, remember?”

She bites her lip, fighting back tears. “You’re gonna make me cry.”

I laugh softly and brush a strand of hair behind her ear. “Then we’ll both look stupid.”

She leans forward, wrapping her arms around me as tightly as she can, and for a second I don’t feel like the guy who just won the championship. I just feel like her brother - the one who promised that no dream was too big for either of us.

When I pull back, I tap her chest gently. “You’re my lucky charm.”

She smirks. “Then you should probably take me to every race.”

“Deal,” I whisper.