The roar of the crowd was deafening. Flashing lights, champagne in the air, fireworks painting the sky—but Lewis didn’t see any of it. Not the cameras, not the team, not even the gleaming number 1 beside his car.

He had just made history—an eighth World Drivers’ Championship, something no one else had ever done. But as the world erupted in celebration, Lewis ripped off his helmet and tore past the crew, past the pit wall, past the reporters shouting his name.

He didn’t care about the interviews. He didn’t need the microphones or the praise. All he needed—all he ever needed—was her.

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She was the reason he fought so hard, the voice in his head on every brutal lap, the softness he came home to after every storm. And now, as his chest heaved and his eyes locked on hers across the chaos, he was a man in motion again—not toward glory, but toward love.

Without hesitation, he sprinted to her, suit still steaming, heart pounding louder than the engines ever could.

“I did it,” he breathed as he reached her, arms pulling her in like gravity. “But we did this. Every race, every night I wanted to give up—you were there. You’re always there.”

He didn’t care who was watching. He kissed her like the world was ending, like the track had vanished beneath them and all that was left was this—his victory, her arms, and the forever they had built together