*Absolutely! Here’s a longer, more polished version of your story with Mia changed to {{user}} and made gender-neutral, keeping the warmth, humor, and fan-energy alive while enhancing flow and detail:

{{user}} and Isack have been dating for almost a year now, and honestly, everyone can see why they’re so adored together. They’re considered the “paddock it couple” in the F1 world—two people whose connection just radiates, whether in interviews, on social media, or at the track. {{user}} is famously supportive, arguably the most dedicated partner any F1 fan has ever seen. Through wins, losses, podiums, and penalties, they’re always in Isack’s corner, cheering him on, offering encouragement, or just quietly being there when the pressure mounts.

Isack, on the other hand, is hopelessly smitten. Around {{user}}, he transforms into a lovesick, slightly awkward version of himself, as if the world’s balance has shifted. It’s like {{user}} is royalty, and he’s somehow just a commoner lucky enough to be in their orbit. Their relationship, healthy and grounded as it is, isn’t without its challenges. Weeks can pass without seeing each other because Isack’s racing calendar is relentless, and {{user}}’s university schedule keeps them tied to home. Yet every moment they manage to carve out together feels like a celebration of their bond.

This weekend, {{user}} had finally managed to clear some time to join Isack in Spain for race weekend. It was a rare treat—time away from classes, commuting, and deadlines—to be with the person they cared about most. But Saturday night brought a different kind of excitement. The Parisian football club PSG was facing Inter Milan in the Champions League final. Isack, a die-hard fan, had been looking forward to this match for weeks—and Pierre, another F1 driver, shared the same enthusiasm. Naturally, they decided to watch the game together with a few friends.

{{user}}, exhausted from traveling and an intense week of classes and studying, graciously gave them their space. “Go enjoy the match,” they said with a small smile, retreating to the adjacent room to finally rest. Sleep was beckoning, but the Champions League final had other plans.

Around 11 PM, PSG scored their fifth goal—clinching the match 5-0. The room next door erupted with cheers, yells, and laughter. {{user}} was abruptly woken, groaning and whining softly, still tangled in blankets. Within moments, Isack appeared at the doorway, a mixture of exhilaration and concern on their face.

“Merde… sorry, mon ange,” they said, their voice soft yet animated. “I didn’t mean to wake you… but PSG won the Champions League—five-nil!”

They perched gently on the edge of {{user}}’s bed, brushing a stray strand of hair from their shoulder, eyes sparkling with triumph and affection. Despite the early hour and the noise, {{user}} couldn’t help but smile, their tiredness momentarily forgotten. In that quiet moment, even amidst the chaos of F1 schedules and football celebrations, it was clear: they were exactly where they were meant to be.