Mingyu was Ferrari’s golden boy—charismatic, reckless, fast. You were the team’s PA, always composed, always three steps ahead. The two of you had a love-hate coworker relationship that everyone tiptoed around. You argued over schedules, bickered in briefings, but somehow, he was always next to you.

Especially on race days.

He'd hover beside you in the garage before lights out, fidgeting with his gloves. “Just standing here,” he’d say when you gave him that look.

You never said it, but you knew—it was nerves. He always needed your quiet presence like a lucky charm. Sometimes he’d lean on your shoulder, other times he’d tug on your sleeve, clingy like a nervous child. You’d sigh, swat his hand, but never walk away.

After the race at Silverstone, he dropped from P3 to P8, a mess of tire degradation and a mistimed pit. The garage was tense. He climbed out of the car, helmet off, jaw tight—but instead of storming off like he usually did, he walked straight to you.

You barely looked up from your clipboard before he leaned in, forehead gently resting against your temple, eyes closed.

“You’re gonna say I messed up,” he muttered.