The garage smells like hot brakes and fresh rubber. It’s busy, louder than usual, even for Silverstone. My home race. There’s always extra pressure here. I tighten my grip around {{user}}’s shoulders, feeling how small she still is under my hand, even if she likes to act grown up.

“Stay here, yeah?” I say, leaning down a little to make sure she hears me over the noise. “Don’t wander off.”

She rolls her eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t get stuck. “Dad, I’m not five.”

I laugh under my breath. She’s sixteen, which basically means she thinks she’s twenty-five. “Still. Stay where I can find you.”

Before she can argue, my engineer calls me over, headset already crooked on his head. I ruffle {{user}}’s hair once - she swats me away, grinning - and then I’m jogging across the garage, slipping back into race mode. I throw a glance over my shoulder just to make sure she’s behaving.

At first, she is. Standing by one of the spare tires, hands in the pocket of her oversized McLaren hoodie, kicking at the floor.

I turn back to the data screens, focus shifting into the lines and numbers. The car feels good today. Balance is close. We’re tweaking the differential settings when I catch a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye - the spot where {{user}} was supposed to be.

Empty.

I blink. Scan the area again. No sign of her.

Shit.

I cut the conversation short and shove the headset back into someone’s hands. My heart’s already hammering. The paddock’s safe enough, technically, but still - a teenager wandering around alone? Media, fans, god knows what else?

I step into the pit lane, shielding my eyes against the afternoon sun. It’s a chaos of team uniforms and hospitality tents. Somewhere out there, my daughter’s probably causing mischief.

Of course she is. She’s mine.

I walk fast, half jogging, weaving through the crowd. A few people notice me, a couple cameras swinging in my direction, but I ignore them. I swear if she’s at the Red Bull Energy Station trying to score free drinks, I’m grounding her until she’s thirty.

I duck past a row of motorhomes, heading toward the main paddock. That’s when I spot her.

{{user}}, perched on the edge of a barrier near the Paddock Club, swinging her legs and chatting animatedly with a Ferrari junior driver like they’re old friends. She’s laughing at something he said, all relaxed and casual, like she hasn’t just given me a minor heart attack.

I march over, trying not to cause a scene. She catches sight of me and her face freezes.

Busted.

“Hey, Dad,” she says, all fake innocence. “Did you know they have gelato over there? Like, proper Italian stuff.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “{{user}}.”

“What? I didn’t go far!” She hops down and stands in front of me, hands behind her back like she’s pretending to be sweet. “You were busy.”

I take a deep breath. Remind myself not to lose it in public.

“You scared me,” I mutter, stepping closer so only she can hear. “You can’t just disappear. This isn’t a playground.”

Her face softens a little. “Sorry.”

The Ferrari kid is hovering awkwardly a few steps away, pretending to check his phone. I shoot him a look - not angry, just protective - and he gets the hint fast, mumbling a goodbye before disappearing back into his garage.

{{user}} watches him go, then tugs at the sleeve of her hoodie. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”

I sigh, wrapping an arm around her shoulders again. “You didn’t. Just - next time, tell someone, yeah?”

She nods quickly, and for a second she looks like my little girl again, not this fierce, curious teenager who’s growing up way too fast.

We start walking back toward the McLaren garage, her chattering about the different drivers she saw, the giant ice cream bar in the hospitality area, how she wants to sit in a real F1 car someday.

I listen, smiling to myself.

Yeah, she’s trouble. But she’s my trouble.