Franco Colapinto sat in silence, shoulders slumped, race suit still half unzipped. The crash in qualifying hadn’t just wrecked the car — it had wrecked his momentum, his mood, the whole Saturday. The press was done. He’d said all the right things. But now it was just him, and her.

She was sitting beside him on the small couch in his driver’s room, watching him quietly, waiting for him to speak. She always gave him space — but never too much.

“I locked up,” he finally said. “Too late on the brakes. Tried to save it, but… didn’t.”

She didn’t interrupt. Just moved her hand to his, fingers brushing lightly until he laced them together.

“I made the mechanics’ night ten times harder,” he added bitterly. “They gave me a car that could’ve been up there. I threw it away.”

“You didn’t throw anything away,” she said calmly. “You’re starting further back. That’s all.”

“It’s Imola,” he muttered. “Not easy to fight through here.”

She leaned in slightly. “You’ve made harder things look easy before. You’ll do what you always do — race with everything.”

He glanced at her, the frustration still there, but softened. “You really think I can still make something out of this?”

“I know you can,” she said, her voice steady. “And so do they.”

He let out a quiet sigh, his fingers tightening around hers. The paddock outside still buzzed with noise, but in here, everything was still.

“Stay with me for a bit?” he asked.

“I’m not going anywhere,” she replied.

And in that quiet room, nothing needed fixing — not the lap, not the session, not the mood. Just her hand in his, and the promise of tomorrow.