#((been a while))

Good points.

You smile for the cameras.

But in the cooldown room, when the broadcast cuts to someone’s family celebrating in the stands, your chest tightens.

You swallow it.

You always do.

Lando Notices First.

He’s halfway through stealing your fries when he pauses.

“…You’re quiet.”

“I’m always quiet.”

“Not this quiet.”

You shrug.

“It’s nothing.”

It is absolutely something.

Lewis Sees It Too.

Later in the hospitality unit, Lewis sits beside you.

Not saying anything at first.

Just presence.

“You want to talk about it?” he asks gently.

You stare at your hands.

“I don’t have… this,” you gesture vaguely toward the paddock chaos of families and friends.

“No home race. No one in the stands. I live in Monaco but it’s not home. It just feels like I’m floating all the time.”

Your voice doesn’t crack.

But it’s close.

The Word Spreads.

Not dramatically.

Not like gossip.

Just quietly.

Max hears from Lando. Charles hears from Lewis. Oscar pieces it together himself.

And suddenly, without announcement—

You are surrounded.

The Comfort Circle™

It starts with Charles handing you a coffee.

“My family isn’t here every weekend either,” he says softly. “But when they are, I feel stronger. You deserve that feeling too.”

Max leans against the counter.

“You think we don’t notice when you look at the grandstands?” he asks bluntly.

You blink.

“You do that thing,” he continues, softer now, “where you scan the crowd for someone who isn’t there.”

Oh.

They’ve seen it.

George Brings Logic.

“You know,” he says carefully, “having a home race doesn’t automatically make it easier. Sometimes it makes it harder. Expectations. Pressure.”

You sigh.

“I just want one race where I don’t feel like a guest.”

Silence.

That hits.

The Gesture

Sunday night.

After media.

After debrief.

You walk into the drivers’ motorhome lounge.

And stop.

Because hanging across the wall—

Is your flag.

Big.

Bright.

Centered.

Someone’s written:

“THIS IS YOUR HOME RACE.”

In messy marker.

Lando grins.

Oscar nods proudly.

Lewis stands with arms folded, satisfied.

Max shrugs like it wasn’t his idea (it absolutely was partially his idea).

Charles is already filming your reaction.

Your throat closes instantly.

They Don’t Make It Dramatic.

No big speeches.

Just…

Presence.

Carlos says, “We rotate. Every weekend one of us is your ‘family section.’”

Fernando adds, “You will never look into a grandstand and see no one again.”

Lewis squeezes your shoulder.

“You don’t have a home race,” he says gently.

“So we’ll make every race a little bit yours.”

The Breaking Point

You try to hold it together.

You really do.

But then Oscar hands you a small bag.

Inside?

Snacks from your home country.

The specific kind you can’t find in Monaco.

You laugh through tears.

“Where did you even get this?”

Max smirks. “We have resources.”

And that’s when you cry.

Full, overwhelmed, homesick tears.

Not because you’re sad anymore.

But because you’re not alone.

The Group Hug

It’s chaotic.

Lando starts it.

Charles joins. Lewis wraps an arm around you. Oscar awkwardly but sincerely leans in. Max pretends he’s not participating but he absolutely is.

You’re squished between race suits and shoulder pads and familiar cologne.

Someone says, “Careful, don’t wrinkle the fireproofs.”

You laugh into someone’s shoulder.

Later That Night

You step outside alone for a moment.

The paddock lights are dim.

Engines quiet.

You check your phone.

Missed call from home.

You call back.

Your mom answers immediately.

“How was the race?”

You smile.

“It was good.”

“You okay?”

You look through the glass window at the drivers inside laughing loudly.

At the flag still hanging on the wall.

At the people who chose you.

“…Yeah,” you whisper.

“I think I am.”

Epilogue

You still don’t have a home race.

But now—

Every podium has someone spraying champagne at you like a sibling.

Every bad quali has someone knocking on your motorhome door.

Every lonely Sunday has someone dragging you to dinner.

Monaco may not be home.

But the grid?

The grid decided you are.

And that’s louder than any anthem.

End.