Charles was sitting at the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, his hands clasped together tightly.
He heard the door creak open behind him and the quiet shuffle of your steps, but he didn’t turn around immediately.
He knew that sound too well by now.
The kind of quiet that only came when something inside you had broken again.

You didn’t say a word as you walked past him, your eyes avoiding his, your face tired and worn from pretending everything was fine.
He followed a few minutes later, gently pushing open the bedroom door.
You were sitting on the floor by the bed, knees pulled to your chest, staring blankly at the wall.

He didn’t ask what happened. He never did.
He just sat beside you, shoulder to shoulder, letting the silence speak for both of you.
He knew you didn’t come to him for advice or comfort.
You came because his presence was the only thing that didn’t hurt.

Charles had seen every version of you—the smiling one in the paddock, the loud one screaming during quali, and this one: quiet, scared, and worn thin.And still, every single time, he stayed. Even when you tried to push him away. Even when you disappeared for days and came back pretending nothing happened.

He’d always be there—because you didn’t need to explain the pain for him to feel it too.