Thanks to Norris

part 77- racing

Drivers' Parade

The sun beat down over the city skyline, the Marina Bay glinting in the distance, fans already roaring from every grandstand. The driver parade was a blur of noise, waving, and canned questions shouted over microphones. You stood in the back of the truck bed, arms crossed loosely as you watched the crowd blur past.

Lando was on the other side — sunglasses on, cap low, but you could feel him glancing your way every few seconds. Every time your shoulders relaxed. Every time you smiled at a kid waving a homemade sign.

Every time you forgot to pretend.

At one point, he moved closer — subtly, slowly, so it wouldn't raise flags. You didn't turn. Just said, without looking:

"You ready?"

You felt the answer in his silence. Then, finally:

"I've been ready since I was fifteen."

You smiled — not for the cameras, not for the crowd. Just for him.

Race Start – Lap 1

The lights went out.

Chaos into Turn 1. You kept the inside line, your front wing just shy of Max's rear tire before he got swallowed by dirty air into Turn 3. Lewis pressured you from behind — always the hunter, always the threat.

But none of that mattered.

Because Lando?

Lando was gone.

A perfect launch. Clean air. Precision. No mistakes. The car looked glued to the track, like he'd willed it to obey.

And you chased him. For 62 laps.

Final Lap – Lap 63

Your team screamed sector times in your ear, but you already knew the truth.

You weren't catching him.

Not today.

Lando's orange McLaren disappeared just ahead, sliding through the final corners like it was built for this exact moment — and maybe it was. Maybe he was.

You crossed the line 1.6 seconds behind him.

Lando Norris — P1.
You — P2.
Lewis — P3.

But for the first time in your life, it didn't feel like second place.

It felt like history.

Post-Race – 

Your car came to a stop, the brakes hissing, engine winding down as your pulse still thundered through your chest.

You barely registered the team sprinting toward you — hugs, cheers, helmet slaps — your body moved on instinct. You ripped the belts off, helmet still on, and stumbled out into the blur of celebration.

And then you saw him.

Lando. Surrounded by orange. Helmet still on. Standing there like he couldn't believe it either.

You locked eyes from across the crowd.

And without thinking — without hiding — you walked straight to him.

No hesitation.

No PR narrative.

Just you and him.

You crashed into each other, arms wrapping tight, helmet against helmet, chest to chest. The crowd roared, not for the points, not for the podium — but for the truth of it.