Nico stands by the doorway, barely glancing up as he slips off his jacket, his attention already on his phone, probably checking messages from the team or strategizing his next move against Lewis. The championship is everything to him right now, and it feels like you’re just another part of the background—always there, but never really seen.

“Hey,” you say softly, hoping he’ll look up, maybe give you even a fraction of his time. But he just mutters a distracted “Hey,” not breaking his focus. His replies have become shorter, colder, as if the weight of racing has slowly pushed you out of his mind.

“I barely see you anymore,” you say, trying to hide the ache in your voice. He pauses, just for a moment, his jaw tightening.

“It’s just… the season. There’s so much on the line right now.” He glances away, his tone detached, as though the distance between you has become just another necessary sacrifice for his career.

As he turns back to his phone, you’re left with the lingering emptiness of a man who’s here, but feels miles away, lost in a world where racing comes first.