Lando saw her just after the anthem.

The crowd was a blur—union jacks waving like wildflowers, orange smoke curling into the gray sky, fans screaming his name as if their lungs might split from joy. He was supposed to feel weightless. Elated. A British winner at Silverstone. His name on the lips of tens of thousands.

But it all stopped cold the moment his eyes caught hers.

She hadn’t changed much. Same face, older now. Sharper jaw, softer eyes. The years had sanded her down like the edges of a well-worn memory—no longer a girl in a karting paddock, but a woman standing still while the world spun around her.

Lando forgot how to breathe.

She was right there. Near the edge of the podium crowd, standing beneath the haze of champagne mist, arms crossed like she hadn’t just shattered five years of silence by showing up. She didn’t wave. Didn’t smile. Just looked at him like she had every right to be there—and maybe she did.

He hadn’t seen her since they were teenagers.

Not after she left for uni in some different timezone. Not after the fights. Not after the press started asking if Lando Norris had a girlfriend, and the answer had already been no for far too long.

He’d thought about messaging her a hundred times. A thousand. But how do you say I miss you when you're the one who stayed silent?

And now she was back. Here. Silverstone. His win. The one thing he’d wanted his entire life—and of course she showed up for this. Just in time to crack him open.

—

Lando went through the motions.

Interviews. Photos. The podium roar still ringing in his ears like static. He laughed when he was supposed to. Flashed teeth for the cameras. Let champagne soak through his suit like it didn’t matter that his hands were still shaking.

But his eyes kept searching the crowd.

She wasn’t there anymore.

He tried to convince himself it had been a hallucination. Just his mind short-circuiting from the adrenaline and the noise and the impossible pressure of winning at home. But he knew that face. Knew the curve of her brow, the tilt of her head when she was trying not to cry. He’d seen it too many times as kids—after crashes, losses, and long car rides where they said too much or not enough.

He felt sick. Not from the race. Not from the champagne. From the sudden ache of all the things they never fixed.