Carlos Sainz did not believe in magic candles.

He believed in superstition, sure .... racing gloves that had to be put on in the same order, stepping into the car with the right foot first, never talking about a good qualifying lap until it was over.

But magic? No. Absolutely not.

Which was why he was glaring at the candle on his bedside table like it had personally offended him.

Lando had given it to him earlier that evening, shoving it into his hands with a grin too wide to be innocent.
“Special candle,” he’d said. “Smells nice and grants wishes. Two, specifically. Before bed.”

Carlos had snorted.
“Does it also fix my life?”