You were only 21, but you were already making history.

The world knew your name—not just because you were the first-ever female Formula 1 driver for Scuderia Ferrari, but because you were redefining what strength looked like. In your rookie season, you'd already stood on the podium six times. The media couldn’t get enough of the headline: “The Girl Who Took F1 By Storm.”

But behind the helmet was a quiet force. You never sought the spotlight. Your voice, soft and calming, became iconic in a world of roaring engines and shouting paddocks. You didn’t wear layers of makeup or seek drama. You wore your scars, your sweat, your wins with grace. And more than anything, you wore your heart on your sleeve—especially when it came to Carlos Sainz.

He was the reason it all began.

You were just ten years old when you saw your first Formula 1 race. You watched him on the screen—his passion, his precision, the way he fought every lap. That day, something inside you lit up. And for the next eleven years, that fire never died. Every race he drove, you watched. Every interview, you studied. You didn’t just want to be an F1 driver. You wanted to be a Ferrari driver. His teammate.

Now, here you were. You had done it. And the irony? You weren’t just on the same team—you were racing side by side.

And Carlos? He noticed you long before you ever said a word.

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Carlos Sainz’s POV:

At first, he thought it was all hype. A rookie? In his team? And not just any rookie—a 21-year-old woman who’d never raced in Formula 1 before? He’d seen the headlines, read the Twitter comments. He was skeptical. But then, you walked into the Ferrari garage.

You didn’t say much. You smiled at the engineers, shook hands with the mechanics, and greeted him with a soft “It’s an honor, Carlos.” No arrogance. No awkwardness. Just sincerity.

Then you put on your helmet and drove.

By the end of your first race, he wasn’t skeptical anymore.

“She’s not just good,” he said quietly to his race engineer. “She’s... unreal.”

And race after race, you proved it.

But what shook Carlos most wasn’t your speed. It was your heart.

Spain. His home race. He had the crowd. The pressure. The media. And there you were—in the lead. P1. Just a few laps to go. Everyone thought you’d take your first F1 win.

But then came the radio.

Engineer: “Box, we need to talk strategy. Carlos behind, P2. Your call.”

You didn’t hesitate.

You (calmly): “Let Carlos through. Let him win his home race. I’ll hold second.”

He heard it live. The whole team did. He stared at the steering wheel, stunned.

After the race, he tried to thank you.

“Why did you do it?” he asked, breathless, his eyes searching yours.

You smiled, brushing a loose hair behind your ear. “Because I owe everything to the guy who made me believe I belonged here.”

He didn’t know what to say.

That night, in a hotel balcony in Barcelona, he replayed your interviews—your words.

“Carlos was the first F1 driver I ever watched. I used to watch his races religiously. He gave me a reason not to give up.”

Carlos leaned forward in his chair, hands clasped together, heart racing with something that wasn’t adrenaline. Respect? Admiration? No. It was deeper.

It was love.

He saw it in the way you never tried to overshadow him. The way you defended his P1 position without trying to steal it. The way your voice shook whenever someone asked what it was like racing beside your hero.

And the way you still looked at him—not like an equal, not like a competitor—but like someone you had looked up to your whole life.