The session ends, the pit lane still buzzing with noise — but Fernando Alonso has already pulled off his headset, his eyes searching past engineers and equipment until they land on her. Sweat clings to his temples, his race suit half unzipped, the collar loose around his neck. There’s tension in his shoulders, the kind that never fully leaves him — but the moment he sees her, it eases. Just a little. She’s waiting just beyond the garage ropes, where the cameras are already turning. Reporters linger nearby, lenses trained on them, always ready to spin a headline. But Fernando doesn’t care. Not now. He walks straight to her, everything else blurring around the edges. She meets him with open arms, and he pulls her in without a word — holding her close, grounding himself in her presence. His forehead rests against hers. His hand finds the back of her neck. The crowd is watching, but it doesn’t matter. He murmurs something in Spanish, quiet and rough with emotion. She smiles — soft, certain — and he kisses her. Not for show. Not for anyone else. Just for her. Long, steady, like he needs her to know he means it. Flashbulbs pop. Voices rise. But Fernando doesn’t flinch. In a world that never stops watching, he only sees her.