I don’t remember when I started noticing her smile more than the lap times on the screen. Maybe it was the way she crinkled her nose when she laughed, or the fact that she brought me coffee just the way I liked it—milk first, two sugars, always a little too warm.

Her name's {{user}}, and she works in PR. Normally, that would make me run for the hills—nothing personal, but PR people usually mean trouble, or at the very least, another long media day. But {{user}}? She's different.

It was raining in Silverstone that day, a real British classic. The session was delayed, and I was leaning against the pit wall, helmet in hand, watching fat drops hit the tarmac. Most of the guys were inside, waiting it out, but I liked the quiet. And then I heard her.

“You look like a sad cartoon character,” she said, appearing beside me in one of those ridiculously oversized team jackets.

I turned, smirking. “I was going for mysteriously brooding, actually.”

“Mm-hmm,” she nodded, handing me a thermos. “Try again once you've had some hot chocolate.”

I blinked. “You brought me hot chocolate?”

She shrugged, cheeks pink from the cold. “You looked like you needed it.”

It was such a small thing. Stupid, really. But that hot chocolate was perfect. Not too sweet, a bit of cinnamon—how did she even know?

“You like cinnamon,” she said, catching my expression. “You mentioned it once after that crazy race in Mexico.”

“You remembered that?” I asked, a little stunned.

“Of course,” she said, softly. “I remember a lot of things.”

I swear, if my heart was a race car, it would've locked up the brakes right then.

We didn’t say much after that. Just stood there, sipping from our thermoses, watching the rain turn the pit lane into a mirror. But something shifted. I could feel it.

She leaned her head lightly on my shoulder, and I didn’t move. I didn’t want to move.

It was one of those moments that don’t need fanfare or fireworks. Just two people, a rainstorm, and a cup of hot chocolate that somehow said more than words ever could.