March 2024

Melbourne, Australia

The Australian sun was just starting to rise, its light bleeding in through the sheer curtains of Y/N's hotel room. The quiet hum of the city outside was in stark contrast to the storm in his head.

The news had broken out less than three weeks ago. 

Michael Schumacher was alive, walking, no longer trapped in the vegetative state the world had feared for over a decade. The F1 paddock hadn't stopped buzzing since. Rumors flew everywhere, yet no one had seen a single photo from Gina-Maria's wedding in Spain. It was all whispers, all speculation.

Y/N sat on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, scrolling through endless headlines on his phone. Every team principal, every driver, every fan forum... it was all the same. Michael is back. But nobody knew what "back" really meant.

Behind him, Hailee shifted against the pillows, her overcoat from the airport now draped over a chair. She was six and a half months along, the twins kicking more often and more forcefully every day. Her breathing was slow, calm, but Y/N knew she wasn't sleeping. She was reading him like an open book, even without looking.

Hailee: You've been staring at that screen for an hour. It's not going to change anything.

Y/N: It's just... Michael. I grew up watching his races. He's the reason half the grid even wanted to drive. And now

Hailee's gaze softened, but she didn't push further. She knew how much Schumacher meant to him, to everyone in this sport.

Still, as incredible as the news was, Y/N's mind was split. Between the awe of a legend's return and the frustration brewing in his own garage.

Lando.

Ever since Bahrain, things hadn't been the same. Saudi Arabia didn't help either, another race of tense radio calls and silent debriefs. They were still functioning as teammates, but the easy jokes, the playful paddock moments... they were gone. The tension was thick enough to feel in every McLaren meeting.

Now, with Melbourne just days away, Y/N knew the weekend would be a balancing act: focus on the race, keep the peace with Lando, and somehow prepare himself for the arrival of two new lives.

He tossed the phone onto the nightstand and lay back beside Hailee, one hand resting gently on her bump.

Y/N: Everything is going to change...

The next morning...

Albert Park Circuit

McLaren Motorhome, Strategy Meeting

The meeting room smelled faintly of coffee and tire rubber, a strange but familiar mix that only a race weekend could bring. Through the glass walls, the hum of the paddock was a constant backdrop: mechanics wheeling in equipment, journalists snapping photos, fans gathering near the fences.

Y/N sat at the long table, hands clasped, eyes flicking between the laptop screen in front of him and the whiteboard where Oli Cartlidge was already scribbling sector times. Lando sat two seats down, shoulders slightly turned away, scrolling on his phone.

Zak Brown leaned against the end of the table, arms crossed.

Zak: Alright, boys. Melbourne is usually a game of patience. The track's narrow, safety cars are common, and tire degradation is tricky here. We're going to have to be smart.

Andrea Stella, calm and methodical as ever, tapped the table with his pen.

Andrea: Y/N, your pace in FP2 was competitive... just three-tenths off Max on softs. Lando, your long-run pace on mediums was strong. The question is how we balance this in the race. 

Oli cleared his throat, looking between the two drivers.

Oli: We're thinking of splitting strategies. Lando starts on mediums, goes long. Y/N, you start on softs, push for track position early, then switch to hards for the final stint. 

Y/N nodded slowly, running the math in his head.

Y/N: That could work... if I can make up positions at the start without killing the softs.

Lando finally looked up from his phone.

Lando: Or... it could work if you don't get stuck defending instead of attacking.

The room went just a little quieter. Zak's eyes flicked between them, Andrea's expression tightening.

Y/N leaned back, keeping his voice even.

Y/N: If I'm in front, I'll be racing to win. Not babysitting positions for later.

Lando's jaw tightened.

Lando: Just as long as you remember we're a team. We don't need another Bahrain. 

Andrea stepped in before Zak could.

Andrea: Let's keep our focus on maximizing points for McLaren, please. The championship is a marathon, not a sprint.

Oli tapped the board again, forcing the discussion back to numbers and pit windows. But the tension between the two drivers didn't fade... it just sank under the surface, waiting.

Y/N stepped out of the motorhome, aviator sunglasses in place, jacket slung loosely over his shoulder. The moment his shoes hit the paddock asphalt, the swarm arrived... reporters, photographers, microphones in his face.

"Y/N! About Bahrain... are you and Lando on speaking terms?"

"Is Devon Butler getting under your skin?"

"Title chances this season... realistic or hype?!"

Y/N stopped mid-stride, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth. He adjusted his sunglasses, letting the silence hang for just a moment before firing off in full James Hunt mode.

Y/N: Devon Butler? He'd be lucky if he can keep his seat for next season. That Haas is practically a retirement home for careers that never took off.

A ripple of gasps and stifled laughter went through the press crowd, cameras clicking faster.

Reporter: What about your rivalry with your teammate?

Y/N: Look, we're both here to win. McLaren hasn't had a real shot at both the Drivers' and Constructors' Championships since the early 2010s. I'm not about to back down because it makes people feel warm and fuzzy inside. This is Formula 1, not a tea party.

More flashing cameras, more murmurs, more PR blood pressure spikes.

From the corner of his eye, Y/N caught Mitchell, the poor McLaren PR assistant already massaging his temples like he was calculating how many damage-control calls he'd have to make before lunch.

Without waiting for another question, Y/N started walking again, weaving through the paddock crowd toward the garage, tossing one last line over his shoulder.

Y/N: We came here to race. Everything else is just background noise.

And just like that, he disappeared into the garage, leaving the reporters buzzing and McLaren's PR team quietly panicking.

The air was thick with heat and fuel fumes, the kind of Melbourne afternoon where asphalt could fry an egg in seconds. Mechanics darted around the garage, weaving between stacks of fresh tyres and cooling fans humming beside the MCL38.

Y/N sat on the edge of the halo, helmet beside him, boots half-zipped, sunglasses still on indoors like he owned the place. From the speakers in the corner, Limp Bizkit's My Generation roared over the chaos, its snarling chorus rattling the aluminium walls. A few mechanics exchanged smirks, they'd long since stopped questioning his pre-quali playlist.

Hailee was nowhere in sight. He'd made the call earlier that morning.

Y/N: Thirty-plus degrees, smells like petrol and burnt rubber, and not a single decent seat? I'm not dragging a pregnant woman into that furnace.

He'd told her before leaving the hotel.

She'd rolled her eyes, kissed him, and told him to go win the damn thing.

Now, visor in hand, Y/N watched the heat shimmer outside the garage entrance. His earlier soundbite about Devon Butler was already doing laps on social media, PR department probably having a meltdown somewhere in the paddock offices. He didn't care. He was here to drive... and if that meant ruffling a few feathers before lights out, so be it.

He strapped in, tightened the belts, and muttered under his breath as the engine fired to life:

Y/N: Do you come from a land down under. Where women glow and men plunder? Can't you hear, can't you hear the thunder? You better run, you better take cover...

Q1

Y/N sat in the MCL38, visor down. The mechanics gave him the final thumbs-up before rolling him out.

Rob: Alright mate, just an easy outlap. Bring the tyres up gently, don't cook them. We'll go for a banker lap, nothing crazy.

Y/N: Copy, Rob. 

The orange-and-black car glided out of the pit lane, weaving left and right along the narrow confines of Albert Park's first sector. The sun baked the tarmac as Y/N leaned into the warm-up, flicking through gears with lazy precision.

Rob: Temps are good. Brake warm-up at Turns 6 and 9, please.

Y/N: On it.

He dabbed the brakes into the corners, feeling the nose bite. Fans in the grandstands roared as he flew past at half pace, still pushing enough to remind them this wasn't a Sunday cruise.

Coming around the final corner, Rob's voice sharpened.

Rob: Alright, deploy mode. Push lap, drain the battery. Let's make this clean.

Y/N planted the throttle, the McLaren surging forward. He kissed the apex at Turn 1, letting the car drift to the outer kerb, then blasted down towards Turn 3. Each gear change was crisp, deliberate. No overdriving... just smooth, disciplined pace.

Rob: Sector 1, +0.2 on Lando. Keep it tidy through 6.

Through the high-speed chicane, Y/N kept the steering inputs minimal, tyres gripping perfectly on the hot surface. Turn 9 approached and he braked just late enough to make the corner sing.

Rob: Sector 2, matching Lando. Bring it home.

He powered through the final sector, not a wheel out of place, and crossed the line with a lap good enough for P7. More than safe for Q1.

Rob: Nice work, that's plenty. Box this lap, we'll save the tyres for Q2.

Q2

The garage was quieter now... no music, just the hum of the cooling fans and the occasional hiss of the air gun.

Rob: Alright, let's up the pace a notch. Still one push lap should do it. You've got Lando just ahead finishing his flyer.

Y/N: Perfect. I'll take the free real estate.

Rob: You want the tow?

Y/N: Damn right I want the tow. Tell him to keep it planted down the straight before he ducks in.

Rob didn't answer right away, just a clipped "copy" that told Y/N the message had been delivered... probably through gritted teeth, knowing the tension between the two.

Y/N rolled out for his outlap, weaving harder this time to get the tyres biting. Through Turn 6, he spotted the flash of papaya orange ahead... Lando's car, just cooling down after his lap, perfectly placed for the tow.

Rob: Okay, you'll pick him up at the exit of 13. He's aware you're behind.

Y/N smirked inside the helmet.

Coming out of the final corner, Lando's McLaren was a few car lengths ahead, not too slow, not too fast. Y/N opened the throttle, the slipstream pulling him along like a magnet as the speed climbed past 320 km/h. The roar in his ears was pure adrenaline.

Rob: Sector 1, minus 0.3. Good gain from the tow.

Through the technical middle sector, Y/N kept the pace aggressive... late braking into Turn 9 skimming kerbs at 11 and 12. No wasted motion.

Rob: Sector 2, matching Verstappen. Let's finish strong.

The tow had given him the launch, but the last sector was all on him. He powered through the final corner, DRS open, and crossed the line.

Rob: P4. Safe. That's through to Q3.

Y/N: Tell Lando I'll send him a box of chocolates for the boost.

Q3

The air in the cockpit felt heavier now, not from heat but from the pressure. Ten minutes to settle the front of the grid. Y/N leaned back against the headrest as the crew rolled the car toward pit exit, visor down, focus razor-sharp.

Rob: Okay, mate, all in now. We'll send you out in clean air for the first run. Max has already gone early. Let's see what you've got.

Green light. Y/N launched, short-shifting through the pit limiter before hammering the throttle. The MCL38 danced across the warm-up lap, quick weaves, hard braking, the car alive beneath him.

He opened DRS on the pit straight, slammed into Turn 1 at the limit, tyres just clinging on. Turn 3... late on the brakes, feathering the throttle on exit. Each corner was a knife-edge, the car twitching, threatening to step out.

Rob: Sector 1, plus 0.05 to Max. Still in it.

Middle sector: Y/N attacked Turn 9 with millimetre precision, kerb bouncing at 11 and 12, the papaya chassis glued down by sheer willpower.

Rob: Minus 0.02 now. Keep pushing.

Final sector... every muscle in his arms and neck burned as he held the steering against the g-force. Through Turn 13 and 14, he nailed the apexes, planted it early on the throttle, and rocketed down the straight.

Silence for a beat.

Rob: P2. Two hundredths behind Max. Lando's P3.

Y/N exhaled sharply, heartbeat still pounding.

Y/N: Phew... good job, guys. 

Cooldown Room

The air-conditioning was a mercy after the oven of the cockpit. Y/N sank into the black leather couch, still in his race suit, water bottle in hand. Max sat in the middle, Lando on the far side. All three had that post-quali sheen of sweat, helmets off but adrenaline still humming.

A small crowd of reporters stood in front of them, mics out, cameras rolling. The championship's three most aggressive racers in one shot. Two papayas flanking the reigning king.

Reporter: Max, another pole, but it was close. Only two hundredths to Y/N... were you worried?

Max: I wouldn't say worried. But yeah, he's quick. Always is when he's got a car underneath him. That lap... I knew I had to be perfect.

Max turned slightly toward Y/N, a nod that wasn't for the cameras. Mutual respect.

Y/N: He was perfect. That's why he's P1. I threw everything at it... tyres were screaming. But two hundredths... that's just the game at this level. He earned it today.

Reporter: Y/N, you and Max have been known for your aggressive styles. Does that mean we'll see fireworks into Turn 1 tomorrow?

Y/N grinned, leaning forward.

Y/N: If the gap's there, I'm taking it. I think Max knows that...better than anyone, dare I say it. And if I don't, he's gonna take it from me. That's why we respect each other... no freebies.

Max chuckled under his breath.

Reporter: Lando, starting P3. McLaren front row lockout was close. How do you see the first corner playing out?

Lando: Hopefully without me watching these two crash in front of me.

He said dryly, earning a laugh from the room.

Lando: Seriously though, we've got the pace. If we get ahead early, we can make it very hard for Red Bull tomorrow.

Another reporter chimed in.

Reporter: There's been talk about a rivalry between you and Y/N after recent comments. Is that overblown? 

Lando shifted slightly.

Lando: We're competitive. That's normal. We both want to be the guy at McLaren. That's it. 

Y/N sipped his water without looking at Lando.

Y/N: It's healthy. Better to have two guys going for wins than one guy settling for P10.

Later that day...

The city lights spilled in through the half-drawn curtains, the hum of traffic below muffled by the thick glass. Y/N stepped inside, still carrying the faint smell of rubber and race fuel on his suit, helmet bag slung over one shoulder.

Hailee was on the couch, blanket over her legs, a hand resting on the curve of her stomach. Even at nearly seven months, she still looked like herself... just with that glow and the kind of focus only pregnancy could bring.

She smiled when she saw him.

Hailee: P2, huh?

Y/N grinned, dropping the helmet bag by the door.

Y/N: Two hundredths off. Max was untouchable today.

Hailee: You'll get him tomorrow. Come here.

She said softly, reaching for his hand.

He sat beside her, pressing a kiss to her temple. That's when he felt her flinch... not big, but enough for him to notice.

Y/N: Hey... what's wrong?

Hailee exhaled slowly.

Hailee: Contractions... again. Even worse this time.

The words made his chest tighten.

Y/N: Hailee... you're not due for another two months and change.

Hailee: I know. But they're... different now. Not just tightening. It's like...

She broke off, biting her lip, another wave hitting. Her grip on his hand tightened.

Y/N: I'm calling the doctor.

Hailee: Y/N, I've already talked to him earlier. He said bed rest. More fluids. The twins are just... a little demanding right now

Y/N: Demanding? They're acting like they want to run a marathon.

He muttered, trying to keep it light but failing to hide the worry in his voice.

He slid down to the floor so he could kneel in front of her, resting both hands over hers on her belly.

Y/N: You're scaring me, Haiz. You push yourself too much and...

She interrupted him with a small smile.

Hailee: And nothing is gonna happen, okay? We're fine. Just... stay with me tonight.

Outside, the city kept moving, but in that room, it was just the two of them... and the two little lives making themselves very known.

The Next Day...

Albert Park Circuit

Race Day

The Australian sun beat down on the tarmac, shimmering heat rising from the black asphalt. Grandstands overflowed with fans in orange, papaya, red, and every color in between, flags fluttering against the blue sky.

Engines were already rumbling in the pit lane as the drivers made their way to their cars. The smell of fuel and hot brakes mixed with the scent of sunscreen from the crowd.

Y/N walked down the grid in his papaya race suit, helmet under one arm, visor up. His eyes flicked briefly to the front. Max Verstappen's Red Bull sat in pole position, menacing and efficient as ever. Lando's McLaren gleamed just behind, ready to pounce from P3.

He exchanged nods with a few rivals as he passed. Carlos Sainz's Ferrari in P4, Leclerc's in P5, the scarlet paint almost glowing in the sun. Checo Perez leaned against his RB20 in P6, relaxed as ever. Russell and Hamilton's silver Mercedes sat like predators in P7 and P8, both drivers focused, visors already down.

Further back, Yuki Tsunoda's AlphaTauri in P9 and Alonso's Aston Martin in P10 rounded out the top ten, two drivers who could make life very complicated if they got good starts.

The air was heavy with anticipation. Cameras swarmed, catching every handshake, every glance, every tightening of gloves.

Y/N finally reached his MCL38. Rob was already there.

Rob: You know the plan. Get him off the line. First corner's critical. Watch your mirrors for Lando... he's got the run on Carlos.

Y/N smirked, sliding into the cockpit.

Y/N: Copy. Showtime!

Helmet on, belts pulled tight, hands wrapped around the wheel. The crowd's roar swelled as the formation lap drew near.

And for a brief second, under the fireproof layers and adrenaline, Y/N thought of Hailee back at the hotel... almost seven months along, the twins already kicking like they wanted a race of their own.

Y/N: Let's race...

Race Start

Five red lights illuminated above the grid.

Engines screamed, exhaust heat rippling through the air. Y/N's heart rate synced with the flashing lights.

"It's lights out and away we go!"

Max launched cleanly from pole, tucking into the racing line immediately, blocking both McLarens nicely. Y/N reacted well, slotting into P2, the papaya nose of the MCL38 close enough to read the fine print on the Red Bull's rear wing. Lando held his ground in P3, fending off a charging Carlos into Turn 1.

The first two laps were a blur of slipstreams, braking points, and keeping the tyres in check. Max had the straight-line speed, but Y/N was watching, studying, calculating.

Lap 3

DRS Enabled...

Coming out of Turn 2, Y/N nailed the throttle, the car squatting perfectly as he opened the flap. The McLaren surged forward like it had been shot from a cannon. Max moved to defend, but Y/N was already alongside before the braking zone into Turn 3.

Y/N braked late... very late. Sliding just ahead before the apex. The crowd erupted as the papaya car took the lead.

Lap 4

Lando's voice crackled over the team radio.

Lando: Uh... I'm seeing smoke from Max's car. Think he's got a problem.

Behind, the once-dominant Red Bull was slowing, thin wisps of white smoke curling from the rear. The reigning champion limped the car off the racing line, the mechanical failure ending his day far earlier than expected.

Up front, Y/N kept his head down, but inside, adrenaline was screaming. Now it was his race to lose.

Lap 17

The sun was relentless, baking the asphalt and stressing every component. Y/N had been nursing his softs carefully, balancing pace and tyre life, when suddenly...

"Lewis Hamilton has a problem in his car! Engine failure."

The Mercedes slowed dramatically down the straight, smoke billowing from the rear. Lewis coasted the car into the escape road, shaking his head in frustration.

Moments later, the Virtual Safety Car was deployed.

Rob's voice came over the radio instantly.

Rob: Box, box. Y/N, this is the window. Hard tyres to the end. You'll lose minimal time.

Y/N: Copy. 

He dove into the pit lane, hitting his marks perfectly. The McLaren crew was already in formation. In a blur, tyres came off, fresh hards slammed on.

2.1 Seconds

Y/N peeled out of the pit box, the car bouncing over the limiter line. He rejoined just behind Lando and Carlos, the shuffle of strategies now coming into play.

Rob: Great job. You're P3 now, behind Lando and Sainz. You got fresher tyres. You're net leader, mate. Manage the tyres, we're in control.

Y/N adjusted his steering, settling back into rhythm. Sweat dripped down his temple under the helmet, but he was calm... predatory.

Lap 23

Carlos Sainz peeled into the Ferrari pit box, gambling on an overcut to snatch track position back from Y/N. The Scuderia crew worked fast, bolting on fresh hards and sending him back out.

Meanwhile, Y/N was just exiting the final sector, Rob urging him on.

Rob: Push now. Sainz on pit exit.

Y/N's McLaren thundered down the pit straight. In the corner of his visor, he caught the Ferrari shooting out of the pit lane.

It was close... tight margins, meters in it.

By the time Carlos hit the limiter line, Y/N had already flown past, braking late and hard into Turn 1. The orange car swept through the apex cleanly.

Inside the Ferrari, Carlos slammed his steering wheel in frustration. He was stuck behind on cold tyres, watching Y/N's McLaren disappearing through Turn 2.

Rob came on the radio, calm but triumphant.

Rob: That's job done, mate. Keep it tidy. Lando still ahead on old tyres, but he'll need to stop. We are in the driving seat.

Lap 24

McLaren called Lando in. His softs were gone, and with Y/N already having made the undercut work, strategy demanded a response.

The papaya crew went to work... boom, perfect stop, 2.0 seconds.

Lando darted back onto the track, the orange blur exiting the pit lane. Carlos was charging down the straight, tyres still struggling to come up to temperature, but Lando had just enough margin.

"And Norris comes out ahead of Sainz! That's a brilliant pit sequence from McLaren. Specter now leads, and Norris slots into P2. It's a McLaren 1–2 in Melbourne!"

Y/N flew past the pits, now officially race leader. His visor glinted under the Australian sun, the papaya car balanced beautifully on the hards.

Rob came over the radio, voice steady but hiding excitement.

Rob: Okay mate, that's P1 confirmed. Norris P2, Carlos behind him. McLaren one-two. Let's bring this home.

Y/N: Copy that. Tell Lando no gifts today.

Rob chuckled through the comms.

Rob: Already know that, mate. Just focus on your tyres.

The crowd roared as the timing boards updated... McLaren sitting pretty at the very top.

Lap 35

Rob's voice came through Y/N's radio.

Rob: Alright mate, fastest lap just went to Lando. 1:19:813. But don't chase it... focus on tyre management, we're looking good for the win.

Y/N narrowed his eyes behind the visor. His jaw set.

Y/N: Okay.

But he didn't lift.

As he powered through Sector 1, he opened the taps just a little more... taking more curb through Turn 5, braking later into Turn 6.

The data lit up on the pit wall. Zak Brown leaned forward, arms crossed. Andrea Stella glanced up sharply.

Andrea: Che cazzo sta facendo? (What the fuck is he doing?)

In the garage, tension mounted. Zak shook his head.

Zak: Make him abort the lap, Rob. Now.

Rob: Y/N, let's cool it. Tyre deg is higher than predicted, don't risk it. Bring it home.

Y/N: Maximum points, Rob. Let me have it.

Through the final sector, Y/N absolutely attacked, rear dancing but under control. Crossing the line, the papaya car streaked past the pits.

In the McLaren motorhome, Zak rubbed his temples while Andrea exhaled slowly, muttering something in Italian under his breath.

Lap 58

The tyres were crying for mercy, blisters forming, the fronts sliding just enough to test the nerves of even the bravest. Lando's McLaren hung three seconds back, pushing but never close enough.

Y/N rounded the high-speed chicanes, steady hands on the wheel, heart hammering as the crowd stood to its feet. The papaya pit wall leaned over the fence, fists clenched white around the barriers.

Through the penultimate corner... smooth, deliberate. He lined up the final turn, car wobbling slightly under the worn hards.

The roar was deafening as the McLaren shot down the main straight.

"Y/N Specter wins the Australian Grand Prix! McLaren take victory in Melbourne! Their first win since Bahrain 2022. And it's the Specter who delivers again!"

The pit wall erupted, mechanics leaping and hugging, Zak high-fiving Andrea. The grandstands came alive, papaya shirts spotted, clapping in celebration.

Rob: Yes, Y/N! P1, mate! Absolutely clinical drive. Fastest lap and the win... beautiful job!

Cooldown Room

The three of them shuffled in, still flushed from the heat, their overalls sticking with sweat. Y/N slumped onto the sofa first, helmet in hand, exhaling like he'd just gone twelve rounds in the ring. Lando plopped down next to him, grinning with that mix of pride and mischief, while Carlos leaned against the wall, towel draped around his neck.

Carlos: Mate... congrats. That was... strong. Like proper strong.

Y/N: Had to be. Those last laps were brutal... like driving on ice.

Carlos took a sip of water, then tilted his head, lowering his voice a little.

Carlos: And Hailee? How's she doing? I heard she hasn't been feeling great lately.

 Y/N's expression softened instantly. The racer in him gave way to the man.

Y/N: She's hanging in there. Pregnancy's been tough on her, but... she's tougher. Every time I think I'm at my limit, I think about her and the babies, and... that's worth more than any trophy. And this... this all just... fades away.

Carlos smiled warmly, and Y/N shot him a look.

Y/N: How's Florence?

Carlos brightened, eyes soft.

Carlos: She's good. Busy, as always. But... good. Keeps me grounded, you know?

There was a beat of mutual understanding there. Two men balancing life, love, and the madness of F1.

But of course, Lando couldn't let it sit too long. He leaned forward, elbows on knees, smirking like a schoolboy.

Lando: You stole my fastest lap.

Carlos burst out laughing, while Y/N smirked, shaking his head.

Y/N: Hey man... you had the fresher tyres. You could've gone for it. Or was I just... too fast?

Carlos: Jesús... Senna and Prost here.

The three of them laughed it off, but the tension lingered. Friendship was still there, but so was the battle line, freshly drawn.

Who would be the number one in McLaren?

The Australian crowd roared as the three drivers stepped out, bathed in flashes from cameras. The McLaren papaya glowed under the sun, and for the first time in a while, they stood as winners again.

Y/N took the top step, lifting the trophy high into the air, face split with the kind of grin that comes only after years of clawing back. Carlos clapped from P3, while Lando, standing on P2, leaned across and gave Y/N a playful shove on the shoulder.

The anthems played, hands on hearts, but Y/N's eyes flicked upwards, somewhere beyond the flags. He knew Hailee was watching from their hotel room, feet curled up on the sofa, hand resting on her stomach. Just the thought of her smiling at the TV brought warmth to his chest... stronger than any champagne spray.

And then came the champagne.

Lando cracked his bottle open, smirked, and slammed the base of the bottle on the podium floor. The cork blasted, foam erupting like a fire hose.

Y/N: Oh... fucking hell!

Lando cackled as he turned the powerful spray directly at Y/N, who tried shielding himself with the trophy but ended up drenched anyway. Carlos, caught between laughter and self-preservation, retreated toward the edge, spraying both of them back in defense.

For a brief moment, all tension was washed away. Three racers, soaked in champagne, grinning like kids...