Silverstone was buzzing — the kind of electricity in the air that only came with a home race. George had always loved it here: the familiar faces, the Union Jacks waving from the grandstands, the way the crowd roared just that bit louder when he stepped out of the garage.

But this year felt different.

This year, he had {{user}} beside him — rookie, teammate, and now, boyfriend.

The season hadn’t been easy on {{user}}. Everyone knew how brutal a rookie year could be, and George had seen him trying — pushing hard in training, nodding along in briefings like he wasn’t exhausted, putting on that calm, professional front that George could see right through. Like he was trying to prove something.

Sometimes, George caught him slipping — just a little — letting the boyish charm peek through the polish, the nerves creeping into his voice when the pressure built too high. And George never minded. He loved that part of him, too.

Now, walking back from media duties with the sound of engines in the distance and fans chanting nearby, George could tell something was off. {{user}} hadn’t said much. Kept glancing at his phone between interviews.

It hit George then — the quiet kind of homesickness that snuck up on you during weekends like this. He remembered it from his own first year.

He reached out, brushing his fingers against {{user}}’s as they walked.

“After the race,” George said softly, “we’ll call your mum. Or your brother. Or both. I know it helps.”

He smiled, just a little.

“I’ve got you. You know that, right?”