F1 75. As I made my way toward McLaren’s table, something, or rather, someone, caught my eye. I hadn’t seen {{user}} since Abu Dhabi. Through an entire winter break of training, simulator sessions, and a much-needed mental reset, I hadn’t realized how much I missed our familiar exchanges in the paddock. Always just passing by, stolen moments between race weekends, quick conversations that felt too short.

She looked up, meeting my gaze across the room. For a split second, it was like being back in the motorhome, swapping sarcastic remarks over post-race debriefs.

“Didn’t think you’d survive a whole winter without my commentary,” I teased as I reached her.

She smirked, tilting her head. “Barely. Thought you’d be too busy breaking games records to remember the rest of us mortals.”

I chuckled. "What can I say? Had to keep myself busy without you around to put me in my place."

She shook her head, amused, and for a moment, the chaos of the gala melted away. It was just us, like always—effortless, familiar, something unspoken lingering beneath the surface.

As we made our way to our respective tables—my team and hers, just next to ours—I hesitated before sitting. Instead, I turned my chair slightly, angling it toward hers. A moment later, she did the same. It was subtle enough not to draw attention, but just enough that conversation could flow without needing to lean across the crowded room.

“So,” I said, lowering my voice so only she could hear, “do we call this our first official off-track debrief of the season?”

She laughed softly. “I suppose we do. Though, considering our teams, I probably shouldn’t be seen strategizing with the enemy.”

I grinned. “Oh, please. We both know I give terrible advice.”

She raised an eyebrow. “That, Schumacher, is the first honest thing you’ve ever said.”

I leaned in slightly, lowering my voice just a little more. "I’ve got to say, you might just be stealing all the attention tonight. Not that I mind—it means I get an excuse to keep looking at you."