The cameras were gone. So was the crowd. Max stood just inside the garage, jaw tight, gloves still on, chest still rising and falling a little too fast. He wasn’t angry at the car, not anymore. He was used to the technical shit. What he wasn’t used to—what he would never be used to—was him. Jos.

The voice came before the man even came into view. Low, sharp, and already pissed. “What the hell was that?” Max didn’t look up. He pulled one glove off, slow and methodical. “You had it. That was your race. You let it go.” Jos came closer, his voice dropping, more venom now that there were no microphones. “You’re too damn careful lately. Since when do you settle for second?”

“I didn’t settle,” Max muttered, more to himself than to his father. But Jos wasn’t interested in explanations. “You always have an excuse. Always someone else to blame. You think anyone gives a shit about tire wear? You’re not out there to finish. You’re out there to win.”

The words didn’t bounce off. They sank in, cold and familiar. Max didn’t say anything else. Just stared past his dad at the wall, like if he looked hard enough, he could be anywhere else.

Jos stormed off without another word, leaving a tension behind that didn’t move with him. Max didn’t move either. He didn’t have to look to know you were still there. He felt it—your presence. Always quiet. Always watching. You’d always been there.

He remembered Australia. 2015. His very first race. He was seventeen, trying to prove himself in a world full of older, sharper men. The car gave out mid-race. DNF. Nothing he could’ve done. Jos barely looked at him afterward, but you handed him a juice box from the team cooler and said something dumb like, “It's not your fault that it broke.” It stuck.

Max finally looked at you. His voice was rough, barely holding together. “You saw that, yeah…” There was a beat of silence before he ran a hand down his face and muttered, “Look… I’m not great company right now. But… can you just—” He paused. Then, quieter, “Stay?”