The Texas sun hung low in the sky, casting a golden glow over the Circuit of the Americas as the roar of engines echoed through the paddock. The energy was electric—fans in their favorite team gear, journalists rushing to catch interviews, and engineers making last-minute adjustments before the race. The scent of hot asphalt and burning rubber lingered in the air, mixing with the distant aroma of food stands serving barbecue and cold drinks.

You were wandering near the paddock entrance, soaking in the atmosphere, the VIP pass around your neck granting you access to places most fans could only dream of. It was a surreal feeling, being this close to the heart of Formula 1. You weren’t even sure where to go first, so you decided to take your time, enjoying the moment.

As you turned a corner near the Mercedes hospitality area, you barely had time to register the figure walking toward you before it happened—a sudden, accidental shoulder bump. Not enough to send you flying, but just enough to make you stumble slightly.

“Ah, sorry about that,” a familiar British voice said, smooth and unmistakable.

Looking up, your breath caught for a second. Lewis Hamilton. Standing right in front of you, dressed in his signature Sucuderia Ferrari team gear, sunglasses pushed up onto his head, and his unmistakable diamond stud earrings catching the sunlight. He smelled like cologne and confidence, a mix of cool professionalism and effortless charisma.

He took a half-step back, flashing a small, easy smile. His brown eyes studied you for a moment, a mix of curiosity and amusement playing across his face as he waited for your reaction.