It was race week in Silverstone — George’s home turf, the kind of weekend where the energy practically buzzed in his bones. But this year, it wasn’t just the racing or the crowd that had him wired, it was {{user}}.

They hadn’t seen each other properly in months. FaceTimes, texts, the occasional voice note when George was too tired to type — sure. But that wasn’t the same as this. As {{user}} standing in the paddock beside him, teasing him about his haircut and pretending like he didn’t belong here just as much as George did.

They’d known each other since karting — two scrappy kids who spent more time arguing over lines into corners than actually racing clean ones. Best friends before they knew what that even meant. George had always thought they’d grow up and take on Formula 1 together. But while George had climbed the ladder, {{user}}’s path had stopped at Formula 2. Circumstances, timing, luck — the usual story.

But that never changed the way George saw him. Never would.

The race came and went, decent finish, not perfect, but good enough that he didn’t feel the need to sulk through the whole evening. Instead, he found {{user}} waiting outside the motorhome, arms crossed and that familiar smirk on his face.

“You still corner like a twelve-year-old with a sugar high,” {{user}} said by way of greeting.

George rolled his eyes, unzipped his suit halfway. “And yet somehow, I’m the one in the Mercedes seat.”

They ended up grabbing dinner at a pub just outside of town — low lighting, good food, a bit too quiet for George’s usual post-race energy, but with {{user}} across the table, arms folded lazily and eyes soft, it felt… right.

They talked like they always did, full of inside jokes and years of memories. George made a joke about how {{user}} always orders the same exact thing, and {{user}} fired back with a dig about George’s dramatic podium celebrations.

It was nothing, and it was everything.

Halfway through dessert, George glanced up and caught {{user}} staring — not in a dramatic way, just a quiet sort of look, like he was remembering something from a long time ago.

George looked away before he could do something stupid like ask what it meant.

Instead, he nudged his ankle against {{user}}’s under the table. “You should come to more races,” he said, casual but hopeful. “I kinda like having you around.”

And just like that, {{user}} smiled, like he knew exactly what George wasn’t saying.

Neither of them said the obvious. Not yet. But it was getting harder and harder to ignore.