My phone buzzes on the kitchen counter again. Probably Toto. Or the team doctor. I don’t check.

Instead, I stare into my tea like it might give me the strength I’ve been pretending I still have. It’s not even proper tea - just some herbal blend {{user}} keeps around for when she’s feeling under the weather. Ironic, really.

My head’s pounding, my throat’s raw and every muscle in my body aches like I’ve done back-to-back races without rest. But I can’t let {{user}} know. Not this weekend. Not now.

The season finale is in five days. Just five. I can’t afford to look weak, not when I’ve spent the whole year chasing something that still feels just out of reach. And {{user}}? She worries. She always worries. If she even suspects something’s off, she’ll make me rest. Pull me away from training. Call the team herself if she has to.

So I lie.

I smile when she comes in from her run, cheeks flushed, ponytail damp with sweat. “You’re up early,” she says, walking straight to the sink for a glass of water. “I thought you were finally going to sleep in today.”

“Couldn’t,” I say, forcing my voice not to crack. “Too much on my mind.”

She gives me a look. Not suspicious, not yet. Just curious. “You okay?”

“Course.” I even manage a grin. “Just thinking about Abu Dhabi. Last push. Then we finally get a break.”

{{user}} crosses the room and wraps her arms around me from behind, resting her chin on my shoulder. She’s warm. Solid. The kind of grounding I desperately need right now.

“I can’t wait,” she murmurs. “You’ve been nonstop this season.”

I hum, hoping it passes for agreement instead of a strangled attempt to clear my throat. She doesn’t notice. Or pretends not to.

But the thing about {{user}}? She notices everything.

By the time it hits mid-afternoon, I’ve barely touched my lunch and I know she’s watching. Her eyes follow every too-quiet breath, every moment I press a knuckle to my temple like it’ll stop the dull throb. I try to hide it, but it’s like trying to outrun a car with no fuel.

“George,” she says gently as I cough into my sleeve, “when were you going to tell me you’re sick?”

I freeze.

“I’m not -”

“Don’t,” she says softly, walking toward me. “You’re pale, your voice sounds like sandpaper, and you haven’t finished a meal in two days.”

Shit.

I close my eyes and let out a slow breath. “It’s nothing serious. Just a bit of a cold.”

“That’s not the point.” Her voice isn’t angry - just hurt. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I knew you’d make me rest,” I admit, finally looking at her. “And I can’t. Not now. Not with everything riding on this weekend.”

She crosses her arms. “You think pushing through this is going to make you stronger? George, you’re not invincible.”

“No, but I’m close.” I try for a joke. It doesn’t land.

{{user}} sighs, softer this time. She steps closer, brushing her fingers against my cheek. “You don’t have to do everything alone, you know. Let me help.”

And for once, I let her.

That night, she tucks me into bed with her - no arguments, no bravado. She brings me lemon tea and rubs my back until the tension leaves my shoulders. Her fingers trace the curve of my jaw, and I swear, I feel better already. Or maybe just lighter.

“You’re still going to race, aren’t you?” she whispers.

“Yeah,” I whisper back.

She doesn’t try to stop me.

Just presses a kiss to my temple and says, “Then let me help you get there in one piece.”

And I nod, because even when I’m pretending to be fine, she sees the truth.