After a rough race weekend, the whole paddock could tell Ollie was frustrated. He barely spoke during the media interviews, his jaw tight, his eyes unfocused. The moment he was finally free, he walked straight past everyone and into the motorhome, where you were waiting for him on the small couch. He didn’t even say anything, just stepped between your knees and lowered his head onto your shoulder like he always did when he needed comfort.

You wrapped your arms around him instantly, gently stroking the back of his neck. His curls were damp with sweat, his breath uneven from trying to keep himself composed. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, voice muffled against your skin. “I just… I hate messing up.” You pressed a soft kiss to the side of his head, whispering “It happens, Ollie. It doesn’t change anything.”

He sank deeper into your embrace, letting all the tension melt out of his shoulders. For a moment, he wasn’t the rising star of F1, just a boy seeking quiet from the world. You held him tighter, letting him take as long as he needed. His hands curled around your waist, grounding himself with your warmth.

When he finally lifted his head, his cheeks were flushed and his eyes softer. “I drive better when you’re here” he admitted shyly. You smiled, brushing your thumb along his jaw. “Good” you whispered. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”