He’s not the kind of man people get close to. Fast on the track, sharp in interviews, but always holding everyone at a distance. A wall of sarcasm and silence. And beneath that? No one really knows.

You’re assigned as his new press officer — a temporary contract, only for six races. You expect it to be strictly business. But from the first race weekend, there’s something in the way he looks at you. Like he’s already decided to keep you at arm’s length… because letting you in might mean something.

He warns you early. “I’m not good at this. I ruin things. I leave.”

And yet, he listens to your advice. Waits for your glance before entering the media pen. You start having late-night debriefs that last longer than they should. He memorizes the way you take your coffee. He texts you after bad races with just one word: "still here?"

One night in Baku, after hours of rain, you find him sitting alone on the pit wall. His race suit half undone, drenched, eyes on the empty track. You sit next to him. You don’t say anything. You don’t have to.

He finally speaks, without looking at you. “Don’t fall for me.”