It was supposed to be his weekend. Spa-Francorchamps. Lando on pole. The energy in the paddock electric and humming like it knew this was meant to be history—three wins in a row, closing in on Oscar, and a win for his mum.

You were there with her, bundled in matching McLaren jackets and soaked half to death from the rain delay. Cisca had her arm linked with yours the entire time, chattering between bites of stroopwafels like this was a casual Sunday outing, but you knew better. You saw how her eyes followed every camera angle. How she clutched her chest when the formation lap started.

And when the lights finally went out… it felt like holding your breath.

But it unraveled fast. First the battery issue. Oscar slipping past. Then the pit stop—agonizingly slow. And the strategy that just didn’t come alive.

Lap after lap, you watched the hope slip.

Your voice had gone quiet. You weren’t cheering anymore. Just holding onto the railing in front of you like it could hold you together too. Around lap 32, when Oscar’s gap stretched and Lando’s radio was a mess of frustrated sighs, your eyes burned.

Cisca noticed. Of course she did. She slid an arm around your shoulder without saying a word, just held you like you were her kid too.

“Sweetheart,” she whispered. “He’ll come back stronger. But right now, he just needs us to smile.”

And you tried. You really did. But when the race ended, and you saw Lando climb out of the car, helmet still on longer than usual—your throat tightened.

When he finally found you both, damp curls stuck to his forehead, jaw clenched like he was holding back everything—he still smiled. Small. Crooked. Brave.

“Hey,” he said, voice raw. You blinked fast, hoping your eyes weren’t too red. “Hi.”

He hugged his mum first, longer than usual, burying his face into her neck for just a second. Then he turned to you.

You opened your arms before he could even ask.

“Im always proud of you,” you mumbled into his race suit.

“I know,” he said, though he didn’t sound like he believed it. “I just… I wanted to win this one. For her. For you.”

Cisca rubbed his back gently. “And we still believe in you . You hear me? You’re allowed to have one bad Sunday.”

And with that, Lando smiled again. A little softer. A little more real.

You didn’t win the race. But in that moment, standing there between the two people who believed in him most, maybe you won something else.