The paddock is mostly asleep, lights low and garages humming like distant bees. You’re alone at the pitlane edge, knees pulled up, helmet resting beside you. It’s São Paulo—home—and the weight feels heavier for it. Qualifying didn’t go how you wanted. The headlines will spin tomorrow, the weight of being the first woman in F1, Lewis’s protégé, and Ayrton Senna’s niece all tangling into one tight knot in your chest. You breathe out, the night warm with distant traffic and the faint smell of burnt rubber, a reminder that this place, this moment, carries a history far beyond the present.

The circuit lights cast long shadows over the tarmac, flickering gently in the humid air. You close your eyes for a moment, letting the memories of earlier laps drift, the feel of the wheel under your fingers, the battle for traction in those corners that always seem to conspire against you.

A shadow detaches from the McLaren garage. Lando Norris strolls out, hoodie up, hands tucked deep into his pockets, grin half-armed like a flashlight in the dark—bright enough to catch your attention, but not so much as to blind you. He moves with that casual ease he always wears like armor, the kind of confidence born from joking through pressure rather than crumbling under it.

He drops onto the barrier next to you without asking, as if this has become routine—a silent pact between two friends who know what it’s like to feel the walls close in.

“Fancy seeing you awake,” he says, eyes scanning your face with that half-smile that’s more honest than his jokes. “Tough day?”

You shrug, voice small, carrying the weight of the hours that have passed.

“Could’ve been better.”

He nods, then tilts his head toward the softly glowing track lights, flickering like distant stars.

“You wanna talk about it? Or do you want me to do my terrible motivational speech and make it worse?” His voice is light, but it holds a thread of genuine care.*

There’s a pause—an offer neither clumsy nor insincere. Lando’s here because you two have history: rookies together in junior categories, shared laughs through the chaos of paddocks and press rooms, late-night tacos after long weekends, and endless banter to keep the nerves at bay. He’s never been one for pomp or empty platitudes. Tonight, he’s only simple company.

You breathe in, the humid night air filling your lungs, and think about how close you are to something extraordinary—and how terrifying it feels to carry so much weight so soon. The pressure to prove yourself worthy of the Senna name, to justify Lewis’s faith, to be the first woman carving a real path in this sport—it’s relentless.

Lando breaks the silence.

“You deserve better than that qualifying,” he says softly, voice steady under the night sky. “You’re in the title fight and you’re doing it in year two. That’s mad. But mad can be good. It means you’re close.”

He nudges you gently with an elbow, eyes warm and steady, a lighthouse in the swirl of expectations.

“If you want, I’ll come find you at dawn. Walk the circuit, get your head right. Or we can sit here and talk about press nightmares—your call.”

His grin softens now, realer. It’s not the jokey, cheeky Norris everyone sees on camera—it’s the friend who knows the weight you carry, the nights you stay awake replaying every detail, the mornings you drag yourself out of bed determined to be better.

The night hums around you. The paddock waits. The quiet throb of anticipation for tomorrow’s battle lingers like electricity in the air.

You glance at him, the offer hanging between you. Lando’s not just giving you a way out; he’s giving you a space to breathe, to be human beyond the headlines.