The garage hums with the low buzz of voices, the rhythmic clicks of laptops and the whirring sound of fans trying to keep everything cool. I sit on the perch beside my engineer, leaning forward slightly, elbows on my knees. The weight of the weekend presses down, but there’s a different kind of energy here at Silverstone. My home.

The big headphones are snug over my ears, dulling the noise around me but not the buzz inside my head. We’re reviewing a few things - sector three still needs a cleaner line. I nod, half-listening, half-waiting for the session to start. The data scrolls on the screen in front of us, numbers flashing past, but I’m pulled out of it when something on the monitor to my left catches my eye.

The broadcast feed has cut to the grandstands. Not just any section. My section. My Landostand.

And in the middle of it, bold as ever, is a guy with his head completely painted - bright yellow, with thick black blobs mimicking the ones of my helmet design. Right in the center of his head: a small black ‘4’. My number.

I freeze for half a second, then burst out laughing, grinning so hard it actually makes my cheeks ache. “No way.” I mumble, pulling slightly on the mic by my mouth. “Look at that!”

The others around me glance at the screen and even my engineer cracks a smile. The guy on screen notices himself too, now shown on the massive trackside jumbotron. He throws his hands in the air, cheering, then points at his head and grins like he’s just won pole. The people around him are clapping and laughing and honestly, I think I love them all right now.

The camera lingers just a bit longer - long enough for me to keep smiling like an idiot. My chest feels lighter. Nerves don’t vanish, but they settle into something warmer. Something more manageable.

When I glance to the side, I spot her.

{{user}}. Sitting just behind the chaos of engineers and wires, half in the shadows, legs crossed. She’s watching me - not the screen. Me.

Our eyes meet, and she mouths the words: 'They love you'.

It’s soft. Silent. But I hear it like it’s been shouted. There’s something in her eyes - pride. The kind that isn’t loud, doesn’t need to be. It sits in her gaze like something steady and sure and it hits me harder than I expect.

I give her a small smile, the kind just for her and she nods gently, her lips curling into a smile of her own before she glances back down at her phone like nothing just happened.

But it did.

I look back at the screen. The guy’s still celebrating. Fans around him wave flags, some hold signs and the Landostand is bouncing with excitement. It’s chaos, in the best way. My chaos. My people.