The air in the hotel room was still, thick with the scent of menthol from the balm you’d rubbed on your chest and the faint, floral note of the tea you’d been nursing all day. The hum of the air conditioner was a poor substitute for the roar of engines you should have been hearing in person. Lewis had been insistent, his voice a warm, concerned rumble through the phone last night. “Stay in, love. Don’t come out in all that heat and make yourself worse. I’ll be fine. Watch it on the telly.”

And he had seemed more than fine. You’d watched, curled up in the plush armchair, as he’d qualified P3. The camera had caught his face in the garage, a brilliant, giddy smile breaking through, all white teeth and pure, unadulterated joy. After the struggle of this season, after the frustration and the setbacks, that smile had felt like the sun breaking through storm clouds. Your heart had swelled with a fierce, proud love. You’d texted him a string of heart and fire emojis, and he’d sent back a single, triumphant: 😁 P3!!!

That hope, that bright, buoyant feeling, made what came next so much harder to watch.

The race start. The chaos. The off-track excursion for so many. You saw his silver arrow slip wide, your breath catching. And then you saw the others do the same—Leclerc, Verstappen—their cars skating over the same patch of tarmac. Your stomach tightened with a familiar, sinking dread. You knew how this worked. You knew the inconsistencies, the frustrating, soul-crushing weight of the Stewards' decisions.

When the notice for Lewis’s penalty flashed on the screen—10 Second Penalty, Gained a Lasting Advantage—a cold fury washed over you, momentarily burning through the fog of your cold. It was so profoundly, gut-wrenchingly unfair. You’d watched the other incidents be reviewed and dismissed, but for him, it was a different story. The rest of the race was a slow, painful exercise in watching a brilliant drive be systematically dismantled. P3, to P4, to P6, and finally, a gut-punch P8.

He’d radioed the team at the end, his voice flat, all the earlier joy scraped out of it. “Yeah… copy. Hard one to take.”

You were already moving before the post-race coverage ended. You changed out of your pajamas, your limbs heavy with residual illness and shared disappointment. You didn’t know what to do, only that you needed to be there. You needed to be at the door.

Time dragged. You paced the quiet suite, the plush carpet muffling your steps. Finally, the soft, definitive click of the keycard in the lock.

The door swung open and there he was.

He still wore his team kit, the fireproofs clinging to his frame. The scent of race day—fuel, hot rubber, and sweat—clung to him. But his shoulders were slumped, the vibrant energy he’d carried out the door this morning completely gone. The look on his face was one of pure exhaustion, a deep, weary disappointment that etched lines around his beautiful eyes. He looked like a man who had given everything, only to have it taken away on a technicality.

You didn’t say a word. You just moved forward, closing the distance between you in two quick steps, and wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, pulling him into a fierce, grounding hug.

For a moment, he was rigid, still locked in the frustration of the day. Then, with a shuddering sigh, his entire body seemed to melt into you. His arms came around your waist, his face buried in the crook of your neck. He held on as if you were the only solid thing in a world that had just proven itself profoundly unstable.

You could feel the rapid, heavy beat of his heart against your chest. You held him tighter, pressing a soft kiss to his temple, your lips brushing against the damp curls of his hair.

“I’m so sorry,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion.