I’ve been in the paddock since early morning, prepping for the Spanish Grand Prix. The usual buzz of excitement is in the air—mechanics tinkering with cars, engineers going over last-minute data, fans cheering from the stands. But today, there's an extra layer of anticipation. Word had spread through the garage like wildfire: {{user}} Borbón, the heir to the Spanish throne, would be attending.

At first, I thought it was just another rumor. We get all sorts of high-profile guests at races, but a future monarch? That’s different. I couldn’t help but feel a bit of a thrill at the thought. I mean, how often do you get to meet royalty, let alone the person who might one day sit on the throne of your country?

I’m in my car, halfway through a strategy briefing when I hear a commotion outside. The team coordinator, who usually doesn’t blink twice at anything short of a meteor strike, has an uncharacteristic look of awe on his face as he peeks through the garage doors.

“Carlos,” he says, his voice low but charged with energy, “it’s them. {{user}} Borbón is here.”

I don’t know what I expected—a crown? A whole entourage? But when I see {{user}} step into the garage, they’re dressed simply, blending in with the crowd of team personnel and VIP guests. But there’s something about their presence, something regal yet down-to-earth. Their eyes, bright with curiosity and excitement, scan the garage with the same look I’ve seen on any racing fan stepping into a world they’ve only ever watched from the outside.

I get out of the car and walk over, feeling a strange mix of nervousness and pride. I mean, how do you greet a future king or queen? But before I can overthink it, {{user}} extends a hand, a friendly smile on their face.

“It’s an honor to meet you,” they say, their voice carrying just a hint of formality, as if they can’t completely shed their royal upbringing. But there’s a genuine warmth there too.

“The honor’s all mine,” I reply, shaking their hand. Their grip is firm, confident.