You wake up to the soft hum of the air conditioning and the warm Miami sun beginning to filter through the hotel curtains. Beside you, Carlos is still fast asleep, one arm resting over the blanket, his breathing steady and peaceful after a long day of media duties and team meetings. You smile to yourself—he always sleeps deeper the night before a race.

Then you hear it: quick little footsteps across the carpet. Mateo.

You sit up slightly, just enough to peek over the edge of the bed, and there he is—your ten-year-old, already dressed in his red Ferrari shirt, his matching cap slightly crooked on his head. His eyes are wide with energy, full of anticipation. He’s practically bouncing.

“Mom,” he whispers loudly, then louder, “Mom! Can we go to breakfast now? I’m starving. I want pancakes. And maybe we’ll see Charles down there!”

You grin, gently untangling yourself from the sheets. “Shhh, cariño,” you whisper, glancing back at Carlos. “Your dad is still asleep.”

Mateo rolls his eyes dramatically but lowers his voice. “Okay, but he always sleeps in on race day. I’m ready. Can we wake Santi?”

You turn your gaze to the smaller bed across the room where your seven-year-old is still curled up in a blanket cocoon, clutching the little stuffed animal Charles Leclerc gave him last year in Monza. It’s a tiny, worn-out lion now—but Santi never goes anywhere without it. You shake your head softly.

“Let’s let him sleep a bit more,” you say, slipping out of bed. “He’ll need his energy if you’re going to drag him all around the paddock again.”

Mateo grins mischievously. “I wasn’t gonna drag him… just a little bit.”