The race had been thrilling—there was no other way to put it. An hour and forty minutes of high-performance cars chasing each other around the track, culminating in Lando being crowned the winner—speaking of crowns.

Being part of any royal family came with countless regulations, countless expectations. Whether you were next in line, tenth in line, or so far down the list that the idea of a throne was laughable, the rules didn’t change much. Every move was scrutinized. Every word weighed. Every smile documented.

That last part wasn’t exactly something {{user}} could escape. They weren’t the direct successor, no, but they were high enough up in the line to feel the pressure of a crown that might, one day, land on their head. And tonight, under the dazzling floodlights of the circuit, they stood on the podium beside a handful of officials, polished and poised, ready to hand over medals and trophies—“your royal highness” in the flesh, representing their country with practiced grace.

Lando had seen plenty of podiums in his career, but this one? This one was different.

“I’d give you a hug,” he said with an easy grin, dimples deepening as {{user}} finally offered their hand. The cool metal of the medal brushed his neck, and then the solid weight of the trophy settled into his grip. He lifted it for the cameras, sure, but his eyes flickered back to {{user}} just as quickly. It was ridiculous how a single smile from them had him feeling like he’d already won the world.

Heaven on earth wasn’t supposed to exist, not in his chaotic, overbooked life—but standing here, hearing the crowd roar, meeting their gaze, he wasn’t so sure anymore.

Dating as royalty was complicated. Dating as a public figure—an F1 driver, constantly in the spotlight—was as complicated, if not borderline stupid. But this was the twenty-first century, wasn’t it? Shit. Maybe rules were meant to be bent. Maybe traditions could be rewritten.

He set the trophy down, hand reaching for the champagne bottle that waited at his feet. The familiar ritual, the sparkling eruption, the jubilant spray—he’d done it a hundred times before. The cork popped with a sharp crack, foam spilling over his fingers. He aimed, instinctively, toward his fellow drivers, laughter already pulling at the corners of his mouth. But then—just for a second—he tipped the bottle toward the other side of the podium. Toward where {{user}} stood, posture perfect, the ever-poised representative of royalty.

The arc of champagne caught the light, a glittering mist that flew far too close to them. His pulse leapt, a wicked grin curling on his lips before he quickly swiveled, redirecting the spray toward his team’s representative instead. His laugh rang out, blending into the crowd’s.

Later, he’d swear it was an accident. Just the chaos of the moment, the excitement getting the better of his aim.