The ritual started as a joke.

Carlos had been sitting in the Ferrari garage, fidgeting in his seat before a tense qualifying in Monaco.

His hands tapped nervously on the wheel, eyes focused, brows furrowed.

Charles, suited up and radiating that irritating calm he always wore at home, leaned down before hopping into his own car, pecked the top of Carlos’s helmet and said with a grin, “For luck.”

Carlos had stared at him. Speechless. Flushed. But he had placed P2 that day. Charles was P4. The kiss had worked.

After that, it became a thing.