It was still early when you arrived at the circuit. Too early for the usual chaos of race day. The Belgian sky was soft grey, clouds sitting low above the Ardennes, the trees just beginning to drip from a passing mist.

Spa had always felt enormous, but today it felt heavier.

The Mercedes garage was quiet—only a few crew members milling about, some prepping for FP3, some nursing coffees. You signed in, waved a tired good morning to the familiar faces, then slipped away. Not to engineering. Not to media. Just… away.

The paddock was still sleepy, and you needed that. You needed the quiet before it all picked up—before the cameras, the data, the adrenaline. Before qualifying.

Your steps took you instinctively toward the ftrack. From where you stood, you could just make out the rise into Eau Rouge and Raidillon through the gaps in the trees. You hadn’t meant to end up here, not really, but it made sense.

Six years. That crash still lived here. In your bones. In your spine. A long, pale scar ran the length of your back beneath your race suit now—quiet proof of what you went through. Nine months of rehab, relearning, rebuilding. You made it back. But coming here, really coming back, that was something else.

You exhaled slowly, almost not hearing the footsteps behind you.

“Figured I’d find you here.”

You turned just as Lando slowed to a stop beside you, still wearing his McLaren jacket, curls flattened from a damp helmet or hoodie, half a grin playing on his lips. His voice was quieter than usual, careful in the way only someone who knew you long enough to be careful would be.

You offered a small smile and looked back at the trees.

“Didn’t mean to be dramatic. Just… needed some air.”

“It's Spa. Everyone gets a little dramatic here,” he said, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets.

A moment passed in comfortable silence.

“Feels different this year,” you said finally.

Lando nodded. “It’s been six years. Doesn’t feel that long, does it?”

You shook your head. The early morning damp was starting to creep into your shoulders, but you didn’t move.

“I remember lying there. I couldn’t feel anything at first. Just the sound of the gravel and the marshals yelling. And then the pain. It was like my whole body cracked in half.”

You weren’t sure why you said it. Maybe because it was Spa. Maybe because Lando had been there that day—he always had been.

Lando looked at you quietly, then reached out and gave your arm a soft nudge.

“But you’re standing here now,” he said. “You’re racing again. Kicking my ass sometimes, even.”

You let out a dry laugh, eyes flicking to him.

“Sometimes.”

“Still counts.”

He was quiet for a moment, then added, “I remember walking past your garage after the crash. Everything just... stopped. I don’t think I’ve ever hated racing more than I did that night.”

You looked at him. There was nothing playful in his expression now. No cheeky grin, no smart comment. Just honesty.

“Thanks for staying,” you said softly.

“I always would.”

A beat. You looked out at the track again. At the same stretch you’d crashed on. At the place that had broken you and made you again. You breathed in the cold air.

“I don’t think I’m scared of it anymore,” you said after a moment.

“Good,” Lando replied. “Because you’re about to go flat through it in like two hours.”

You laughed, the sound catching in your throat. The tension eased just a little.

"Thought I’d walk with you. Didn’t want you freezing out here and blaming it on me when you miss pole.”

You raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Still scared I’ll outqualify you?”

Lando shot you a look, teasing back now. “Terrified. Always have been.”

You rolled your eyes but stepped away from the rail, shoulders squaring again.

The paddock was waking up now. A low murmur rising. The quiet moment fading into race day energy. But for just a second longer, it was just you and Lando, walking side by side toward the garages—two rookies who had grown up in the chaos of motorsport, and somehow made it through.

This time, you weren’t limping back into Spa.

You were racing.