The Red Bull garage was quieter than usual. Not silent—never that—but the usual clamor of post-race adrenaline had settled into something heavier, like heat still trapped under a fireproof suit long after the flames are out.

George sat on the low wall just outside the hospitality unit, elbows on his knees, race suit half-zipped and bunched around his waist. His undershirt clung to his back, soaked and salt-streaked, collar pulled loose like he’d tried to catch his breath and couldn’t quite manage it. There was a water bottle in one hand, mostly untouched, and his other hand was scrubbing tiredly at the side of his face, knuckles grazing the edge of his jaw where stubble had started to grow in uneven.

The heat had been brutal—one of those races where the cockpit felt less like a car and more like a slow-cooking oven. He’d sounded calm on the radio, professional, clipped. But now, out of the car, the strain had started to show in the slump of his shoulders and the faraway look in his eyes.

He didn’t look up when you approached—just exhaled through his nose and said, “I don’t know how we got through that.” A beat. Then, quieter, “I nearly blacked out on lap fifty. Felt the wheel slipping in my own hands.”

Another pause. The kind that asks nothing but gives everything away.

Then finally, his gaze lifted to meet yours. Tired. Raw around the edges. But there—anchored by something unspoken. A flicker of relief that you were still standing too.

“You alright?” he asked, like it mattered more than his own answer.