I woke up that morning with my arm around her, the sun barely creeping through the hotel curtains. The GP weekend was going well — I’d qualified P3, and honestly, I was feeling good about the car. But more than that, I was happy she was here. {{user}}.

She was glowing. Not just the kind of glow people talk about when someone’s pregnant — I mean really glowing. Laughing. Calm. Strong.

“I’m fine,” she said, rubbing her belly. “He’s not ready yet. You’ve got time to win a trophy first.”

I kissed her forehead and told her I’d dedicate the podium to both of them if I made it. She smiled and said, “Go get 'em, champ.”

Race day. Adrenaline. Focus. I locked in from the moment the lights went out. Tire strategy was perfect, pit stop smooth. I fought like hell for every tenth. Crossed the line P2. It felt amazing. The team was cheering, Zak was grinning, and everything was just—good.

I pulled into parc fermé, climbed out of the car, raised my arms to the crowd. Then I saw one of the mechanics sprinting toward me.

“Lando!” he called, out of breath. “{{user}}. She’s in the hospital.”

My heart dropped.

“What?”

“She… her water broke during the race. She’s in labor. She didn’t want you to know before the finish.”

I didn’t even respond. Just ran. I still had my suit half-zipped, gloves dangling from one hand. The car that brought me to the hospital swerved through traffic like I was driving it. Every red light felt like an hour.

I burst through the hospital doors and shouted her name before I even reached reception.

A nurse pointed me down a hallway. I sprinted through, chest pounding louder than my own engine had been all afternoon.

And then I saw her.

Hair matted to her forehead, eyes tired but shining, holding a tiny bundle against her chest.

“You missed the start,” she said, voice hoarse, “but you’re just in time for everything else.”

I walked over, slowly now, like the world had gone quiet.

A baby. Our baby.

Tiny. Breathing. Real.

“We have our little sunshine. I'm so proud of you” I gave her small kiss.