Thanks to Norris

part 63- race winner

The lights went out at Spa and immediately, instinct took over.

I launched well off pole, defending the inside line into La Source with Charles right on my tail. Behind us, chaos brewed—George got a great start, Lando was battling hard with Carlos into Turn 1, and Max was already trying to climb positions.

As we plunged down the hill toward Eau Rouge, I kept my eyes forward and my foot flat, trusting the car completely. I could feel Charles gaining in my slipstream but held the line through Raidillon and onto the Kemmel Straight. He pulled out of my tow, tried a move into Les Combes, but I braked late and covered the apex. It was wheel-to-wheel, clean but tight. My pulse was hammering.

"Good defense," came my engineer's voice over the radio.

I stayed ahead, but it didn't feel calm. The Ferrari was quick. So was the Red Bull behind him. And Lando—he was making moves, carving up the field.

By Lap 7, Max had made his way into the top five, but I was focused on Charles. He kept me honest the entire first stint, never more than a second behind. The DRS zones made it tough, but I managed the tires well and kept clean air. Our pit window opened around Lap 15, and we boxed for mediums. My stop was 2.3 seconds—flawless.

Back out into traffic. I had to push hard to clear it quickly. My out lap was aggressive, every braking zone on the edge. When Charles rejoined, I had the undercut advantage and kept track position.

By Lap 30, the top four were clear: me, Charles, Max, and Lando—who had climbed to P4 and was gaining.

Lando's pace in the second stint was impressive. He passed Max in a brave move around the outside at Blanchimont, one of the boldest overtakes of the race, and started closing in on Charles. But the laps were running out.

I kept my head down. Each sector, each corner—I hit my marks. My engineer fed me gaps, tire temps, brake balance tweaks. Charles was still trying, but the tires were fading.

Final lap.

Crowd roaring through the forest, the smell of hot tires and brake dust in the air, I crossed the line:

P1.

Charles finished just 1.6 seconds behind. Lando, P3, a further two seconds off. The podium locked—me, Charles, Lando. Spa perfection.

The team exploded on the radio. I barely heard them.

I unclipped my belts, stepped out of the car in parc fermé, the air cool and misty from the nearby trees. Charles came over first—eyes bright, helmet already off. He pulled me into a hug.

"You were on it today," he said.

"You pushed me the whole way," I smiled.

And then Lando.

He walked by slowly, helmet still on, eyes hidden. I turned, took a step toward him, and offered a soft, "Congrats."

Nothing.

He kept walking. Not even a nod.

My heart dropped. Not even on the podium steps—where we stood shoulder to shoulder, soaked in champagne—did he look at me. Not once.

And yet we shared that victory. Me P1, Charles P2, Lando P3.

It should've felt like everything I wanted.

Instead, it felt like something was still missing.

The champagne celebration was chaos and gold—literal glitter in the air, cameras flashing, fans screaming. Charles and I laughed as we soaked each other, arms raised, hearts still pounding from the race. When I glanced at Lando, he was smiling too—at Charles. Not at me.