People think the most adrenaline you can feel is at 300 km/h down a straight. They’re wrong. It’s walking into a room and seeing her.

She was in the corner of the team’s motorhome, wearing my hoodie — which, for the record, I hadn’t actually given her permission to steal. But I wasn’t about to complain. She looked like she owned the place.

We’d met months ago, when she was traveling for work. I liked her energy from the start. She reminded me of those tracks she plays in the car — bold, unapologetic, like she knew her worth. She didn’t orbit around my world of circuits and podiums; she had her own gravity.

But lately, I’d been screwing things up. Too many flights, too many late nights at the sim, too many messages left on ‘read.’ She didn’t whine about it — that’s not her style — but I could feel the distance growing, like a slow puncture you don’t notice until the handling goes bad.

So when I walked in, she barely glanced up. Just a polite smile and back to her phone. That stung more than any DNF.

I crossed the room, blocking her light until she looked up again. "Hey."

"Hey." Her tone was even, but I knew her well enough to hear the guard in her voice.

I sat down across from her. No helmet, no walls, no excuses. "I know I’ve been hard to reach lately," I said. "And I know you don’t need anyone slowing you down. But…" I hesitated, searching for words that weren’t just podium-talk.

She raised an eyebrow, waiting.

I leaned forward. "You’re not my pit stop — you’re my finish line."