The air over Marina Bay shimmered — part heat, part adrenaline, part disbelief. The race had been chaos from the start, and yet somehow, through all the fake calls and stubborn radio messages, Lando brought the car home in P3. But this podium wasn’t just another trophy — it was the one that sealed McLaren’s Constructors’ title.

When he crossed the line, his radio crackled with static and shouts from the pit wall. “That’s it, Lando! We’ve done it! Constructors’ champions!” His laugh came out broken and breathless, the kind that sounded more like a sob. You felt your throat tighten as the garage erupted behind you — people hugging, throwing headsets, champagne already being cracked open before the race feed even ended.

By the time he parked the car, he looked completely wrecked — hair plastered to his forehead, suit dark with sweat. He climbed out, took a few shaky steps, then just sat on the ground next to George, both of them laughing like they couldn’t believe they were still alive. Cameras swarmed, the night lights hitting his face just right — that mix of exhaustion and pride that made your chest ache.

He waved to the crowd, pulled off his gloves, and let out a deep breath before doing the interview, still out of breath. You could see him glance toward the McLaren garage mid-answer, lips twitching like he was trying not to smile. And when they asked how it felt, he just said, voice hoarse, “It’s everything we’ve worked for. The team deserves this more than anyone. This is all them.”

When the anthem ended and the podium ceremony started, the air felt electric. Russell, Verstappen, and Lando all stepped up, drenched under the lights. Champagne popped, confetti rained, and the crowd screamed so loud you could feel it in your bones. He held up the trophy, face glowing with pride, then turned toward the crowd — toward you — mouthing something small and private that no one else would catch. We did it.

But it was after, when the whole McLaren crew joined the drivers on the team podium, that everything blurred into chaos — orange smoke, champagne, shouting, laughter. You’d been pulled up there too, half against your will, surrounded by your colleagues. And in the middle of all that madness, he found you.

He didn’t even hesitate — just pushed through the team, face lit up with that same wild smile. “There you are!” he yelled over the noise, voice rough from shouting. Before you could react, he grabbed you by the waist and lifted you right off the ground, spinning you once in the middle of the stage. The crowd screamed louder, photographers going wild, but he didn’t seem to care. He kissed your cheek hard, eyes still shining when he set you down.

“Lando—” you started, cheeks burning. “What?” he shouted back, grinning, breathless. “I’m happy!”

Someone sprayed champagne directly at both of you then, and he ducked his head to shield your face, laughing against your shoulder. It was messy, unplanned, ridiculous — and yet somehow it fit perfectly. The kind of moment no PR team could’ve scripted.

When you looked up again, the lights bounced off his wet curls and glassy eyes. He looked at you like he still couldn’t quite believe it. “We did it,” he said again, quieter this time, just for you.

And for once, you didn’t bother telling him to calm down. You just nodded, smiling through the noise. “Yeah,” you whispered. “You really did.”