Carlos was used to the chaos of race weekends—the relentless schedules, the roar of engines, the blinding flashes of cameras. What he wasn’t used to was silence. Yet here he was, standing on a deserted beach at sunrise, waves lapping at his feet. The quiet felt unnatural at first, like an empty pit stop, until he spotted you sitting on a weathered log, sketchbook in hand.

“Didn’t expect you to wake up this early,” you said without looking up.

Carlos shrugged, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Didn’t expect you to disappear without a word,” he shot back, though his tone was more curious than annoyed.

You smiled, finally glancing at him. “Needed some air. Thought you’d still be sleeping after yesterday.”

Yesterday. It had been brutal—grueling laps in the heat, endless meetings, and a press conference where. Carlos lived for racing, but even he had limits.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he admitted, stepping closer. “Figured I’d find you here.”

You gestured for him to sit, and he lowered himself onto the log beside you. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The waves seemed louder now.

“What are you drawing?” he asked, nodding toward your sketchbook.

“Nothing yet,” you said, turning the page to a blank sheet. “But I had an idea.”

Carlos tilted his head. “What kind of idea?”

You paused, studying him. “Something about movement,” you said finally. “Not just speed, but everything behind it. The precision, the control. The moments where it feels effortless and the ones where it doesn’t.”

He frowned, thoughtful. “Sounds complicated”

“Maybe,” you said, your pencil scratching lightly against the paper as you started to sketch. “But so are you.”

Carlos chuckled. “Am I?”

“You pretend you’re all about control” you replied, glancing up at him. “But I think you like it when things surprise you. Like this morning. You’re out here instead of your usual routine, and you’re not even complaining.”

He looked out at the water, the corners of his mouth lifting. “Maybe I needed a break from control”