It’s Sunday evening, you’re curled up on the couch, eyes locked on the screen. It’s race day.

Engines roar through the living room, every corner and pit stop making your pulse speed up. You mutter things under your breath — strategy guesses, tire complaints, that one aggressive overtake you still haven’t forgiven from last week.

Your boyfriend walks inside the apartment. He’s sweaty from training, shirt clinging to his back. He tosses his duffel bag near the door with a soft thud and kicks off his shoes without looking.

You expect him to head straight for the shower. Instead, he pauses. You feel him hover near the back of the couch. You don’t turn around. But you know the energy, the quiet grumble of someone trying not to sulk.

“You didn’t watch me practice just to watch this every week?” he says finally. Not rude, not harsh. Just… pointed.

You hum in reply. Not taking your eyes off the screen.

“I ran more than twenty kilometers today,” he adds. “In the real world.” He says as he rolls his eyes before he walks into the bathroom.