It was raining again in Monaco. The city looked softer when it rained—like even the streets were sorry for how loud they usually were. I leaned against the balcony railing, watching the lights blur through the drops. Inside, I could hear her footsteps—light, careful, like she was afraid of what came next.

“Lando,” she said quietly. Her voice carried that mix of strength and sadness that always hit me hardest. “We need to talk.”

I turned around. She stood by the couch, arms crossed, eyes tired. She’d been patient for too long.

“Talk about what?” I asked, pretending not to know.

She gave a small, broken laugh. “About us. About how I feel like I’m dating a ghost. You’re here, but not really. You come home, but you leave your heart on the track.”

Her words stung because they were true. I rubbed the back of my neck, staring at the floor. “It’s been a tough season.”

“It’s always a tough season,” she whispered.

Silence. Just the sound of rain against the windows.

Then she said it—the sentence that made everything inside me freeze. “Maybe I deserve someone who’s actually here.”

My chest tightened. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” she asked softly. “It’s true.”

I stepped forward, words tumbling out before I could stop them. “I know I’ve been distant. I know I make you feel like you don’t matter. But you do. You’re the only thing that feels real when everything else spins out of control. I just… I don’t know how to balance it all.”

She blinked, and a tear slid down her cheek. “I’ve been trying to help you, Lando. But you won’t let me in.”

“I’m scared,” I admitted. “If I slow down, I’ll fall behind. In racing, in life, in everything. But I’m realizing—maybe I’ve been losing something more important than a race.”

Her gaze softened, but she didn’t move. “Then show me,” she said. “Don’t just tell me.”

After she went to bed, I sat alone, listening to the rain. My reflection in the glass looked like a stranger—tired, guilty, desperate. But there was something else too: resolve.

I thought about all the times she’d waited for me, all the times I’d promised to do better and didn’t. If I wanted her to believe me, I had to drive differently—not on the track, but in life.

So the next morning, I got up early. I made coffee before she woke. When she walked into the kitchen, hair messy, still sleepy, she looked surprised.

“You made this?” she asked.

I smiled, nervous. “Yeah. Don’t worry, it’s drinkable. Probably.”

She laughed—really laughed—for the first time in weeks. I’d missed that sound more than I realized.

Days turned into weeks. I started coming home early. I’d leave my phone in another room. I’d listen when she talked, not just nod. When the team called after dinner, I told them it could wait until morning. The first time I did that, she just stared at me like she was seeing me for the first time.

One night, after a race, I found her waiting at the airport. She ran into my arms before I could say a word.

“You did it,” she whispered. “You actually changed.”

I kissed her forehead. “You were right,” I said softly. “You deserved better. I just had to learn how to be it.”

We walked outside, the night air cool and calm. For once, there was no roar of engines in my head—just her hand in mine, and the steady beat of something I’d almost forgotten how to trust.

Home.