Thanks to Norris

part 81- you good?

It started like any other race day: adrenaline in my throat, my visor down, the engine roaring like a second heartbeat. But nothing ever feels normal when you're lining up P4 on the grid in São Paulo, the air thick with heat and tension.

The lights went out.

I got a good launch—better than expected. Slipped past Carlos by Turn 2, tires screaming through the Senna S. Lando was just ahead, already climbing into second. George was untouchable today—pure pace and perfect strategy. But behind him? It was all elbows and instinct.

Mid-race, Lando and I danced through sector two like we weren't pretending to hate each other in public. DRS trains, tire management, all of it faded behind the unspoken current between us. He defended clean. I attacked smart. And still, the radio crackled with nonsense about tire temps while all I could think was: don't look at him too long. Don't give it away.

By Lap 60, I knew P3 was mine. I'd earned it—every braking point, every risky lunge. But I also knew I wouldn't get to celebrate it the way I wanted.

Not with him.

We parked up. I unclipped my helmet and forced myself to look straight ahead. Lando was standing there, P2 cap in hand. So close I could've reached out.

But I didn't.

Instead, we met eyes for a fraction of a second.

That was it.

Not a high five. Not a shoulder bump. No words. Just a look—longer than it should've been, quiet and burning.

You good?
Yeah. You?
Always.

On the podium, the champagne felt like mockery. I sprayed it, I smiled, I cheered like the rest. But the part of me that wanted to lean over and say "You were incredible" had to shut the hell up and sip bubbly instead.

And he didn't come over, either.

Not really.

Just a glance. One shared smirk.
That was all we got.

⸻

Post-Race Interviews

I kept my answers safe. Smiled through them all. Talked tire strategy. Turned questions about Lando into vague generalities.

"Great drive from the whole field."
"Clean battles."
"I'm happy with the result."

Lies, all of them. Not because the race wasn't good—it was. But because no one asked the question I wanted to answer.

They didn't ask: Was it hard not to celebrate with him?
Did you miss him when you crossed the line?

I would've said yes. Every damn lap.

⸻

Back in the Media Center

I was peeling off my race suit in the cooling room when Lewis walked in. He gave me a bottle of water and one of those looks—the kind that says he knows more than he should.

"You good?" he asked.

I nodded. "Yeah. Just tired."

He paused, then smiled faintly. "You handled that well."

I didn't pretend to misunderstand. "Did I?"

Lewis shrugged. "You didn't even look at him when he passed you in cooldown. That's commitment."

I smirked. "PR says we're in our 'fake enemies' arc now."

He chuckled. "Well, whatever you're doing—it's convincing. But just... don't forget where the real story is."