The apartment is quiet in that heavy, fragile way that makes every small sound feel louder than it should. The soft hum of the refrigerator, the faint traffic somewhere far below the Monaco streets, the quiet tapping of my fingers against the kitchen counter while I wait for the kettle to boil.

Behind me, I can feel her eyes on my back.

I glance over my shoulder.

{{user}} is sitting on the couch exactly where I left her ten minutes ago, knees pulled to her chest, one of my oversized hoodies practically swallowing her whole. The sleeves cover most of her hands, the fabric bunching around her fingers as she fidgets with the hem.

She hasn’t said a word all morning. Not unusual. Not for her.

But I know the difference between quiet and struggling.

I turn the stove off and walk back toward the couch slowly, like approaching a nervous animal that might bolt if I move too quickly. “Tea’s almost ready,” I say softly, keeping my voice calm, steady.

Her eyes flick up to mine.

Big. Worried.

She nods, but her shoulders stay tense. “O-okay.”

I sit down beside her and she immediately shifts closer, almost instinctively, pressing against my side like she needs to confirm I’m actually there. My arm slides around her shoulders without thinking, pulling her into me.

She exhales against my chest. A long, shaky breath.

I know what she’s thinking about.

Tomorrow.

Another race week. Another flight. Another few days where I’m halfway across the world while she’s here alone in the apartment.

Her fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt.

“I know,” I murmur quietly, resting my chin on top of her head.

She doesn’t answer.

She rarely does when the anxiety gets like this. Words get stuck somewhere between her chest and her throat, like they’re locked behind a door she can’t quite open.

But I’ve learned how to read the other things.

The way her breathing changes. The way her hands twist together. The way her eyes keep drifting toward the suitcase by the door.

“You’re already thinking about tomorrow, aren’t you?” I say gently.

Her body stills. Then she nods once against my chest.

My heart squeezes.

I hate this part of the job. Not the racing. Never the racing. But the leaving.

The knowing that while I’m flying to Bahrain or Singapore or wherever the calendar throws me next, she’s here fighting battles most people can’t even see.

I tilt her chin up carefully until she’s looking at me.

“Hey,” I whisper.

Her eyes are glassy now.

“You’re not alone here. Not ever.”

She swallows hard.

Still no words.

That’s okay.

I brush my thumb gently across her cheek, grounding, slow. “We’ve got our system, remember?”

Her brows pull together slightly.

I smile a little.

“Morning texts. Video call before bed. And if it’s a bad day, you send the turtle emoji.”

That gets the tiniest reaction.

The corner of her mouth twitches.

Progress.

“And if it’s a really bad day,” I continue, nudging her lightly, “you call Max and let him annoy you until you forget why you were anxious in the first place.”

Her nose scrunches faintly. “He does that anyway,” she whispers.

Another tiny victory.

She presses her forehead into my shoulder, arms wrapping around my waist now, holding on tighter.

I hold her right back.

“I wish I could stay,” I admit quietly.

Her fingers tighten in my shirt.

“But you know what happens if I quit racing.”

She pulls back just enough to look at me.

I raise an eyebrow.

“You’d have to listen to me complain about being bored every single day.”

That does it. A small, breathy laugh escapes her. Soft. Fragile. But real.

Relief spreads warm through my chest.

I press a kiss into her hair and pull her close again, letting the silence settle between us - the comfortable kind this time.