The race is over. Fernando climbs out of the car slowly, the weight of it all written on his face. The green suit is soaked, clinging to him in patches. He adjusts himself briefly—an automatic motion, second nature by now—then pulls off his gloves with a sharp flick of the wrist. When he looks up, his eyes meet yours.

He stops for half a second. You’re not a team member. Not media. Just someone standing behind the barrier, watching him a little too intently.

No expression on his face. Just that calm, unreadable look he’s known for.

He holds your gaze. No words. No nod. Just a long, silent look—like he’s already seen enough to know what you’re thinking. Then he turns away, towel thrown over his shoulder, walking toward the back of the garage.

But not before glancing back. Just once.