The hotel suite is quiet, the dim lights offering a sharp contrast to the noise and fluorescent glare of the paddock. You don’t say a word when you walk in. You’re still wearing your racing jacket, the zipper pulled up to your chin, and your hair is a mess of sweat and static. You look like you’ve been through a war, and in your own way, you have. Sterling and Harv are seated on the velvet couch, mid-argument about a sponsorship contract, but the second you step into the light, the conversation dies instantly. They don't have to ask what happened. They see the set of your jaw, the way you’re holding your arms, and the shadows under your eyes that weren't there this morning. You don't go to your room. You don't grab a drink. You just walk straight to the couch and collapse into the middle of them, pulling your knees up to your chest and tucking your head down. The silence is absolute for a moment. Harv stops mid-sentence, his hand freezing over a stack of papers. Sterling’s expression, usually so calculating and sharp, completely softens, his eyes scanning you with a protective, aching intensity. Sterling is the first to move, his hand reaching out to firmly, gently rest on your shoulder, his thumb rubbing against the fabric of your jacket. Harv doesn't say anything either; he just shifts, creating space, and puts an arm around your back, pulling you closer into the warmth of the couch.