The Miami heat clung to the air like tension did to Toto Wolff.

It had only been a day since their fight, but to {{user}}, it felt like a chasm had opened between them. She walked beside him through the paddock, heels clicking against the concrete, sunglasses shielding her eyes from both the sun and the stares.

Toto wasn’t speaking.

Not really.

He’d said “we leave at 9” that morning and “stay close” when they arrived at the circuit. Other than that, she only got clipped replies and the occasional sigh. His face, usually calm and composed, was hard and cold.

He was angry—and not the controlled, calculating type of anger that won him championships.

No, this was something else.

It had started two nights ago, when she’d gone out with friends in Miami—friends her age. There were guys. Flirty guys. Ones who laughed a little too loud at her jokes and leaned a little too close at the bar. Toto wasn’t even there, but someone had sent him pictures. A tag on Instagram, a video clip in a story, something careless but enough.

She got back to the hotel to find him already waiting.

“You think I don’t see it?” he’d said in that soft, Austrian-accented tone that somehow cut deeper than yelling. “You talk to them like you’ve forgotten who you’re with.”

“I wasn’t flirting,” she argued, voice rising. “They’re just friends.”

“Friends who want more.”

That had stopped her.

“You’re jealous?”

“I’m protective,” he said sharply. “There’s a difference.”

But was there?

Now, they walked side by side and still felt miles apart. Mercedes crew waved as they passed, fans shouted Toto’s name, but none of it registered. Not really. {{user}} had hoped coming to the Grand Prix with him would bridge the distance.

It hadn’t.

And then came the paparazzi.

They weren’t unusual in Formula 1, especially not on a race weekend in Miami. But one man in particular jogged after them, camera slung over his shoulder, phone raised for video.

“Mrs. Wolff!” he called.

{{user}} slowed down, blinking. “Wait, what?”

“Mrs. Wolff! Over here!”

She looked at Toto, startled. “Did he just…?”

Toto didn’t even glance at her. “Keep walking.”

She frowned but followed. The tension in his jaw was more telling than anything else. She had questions, but she was learning now wasn’t the time.

They reached the Mercedes hospitality building, a sleek two-story structure decked out in silver and black. Inside, the AC cooled the heat, but it didn’t do much for the ice in Toto’s demeanor.

They were greeted by a cheerful George Russell, fresh from the simulator.

“Well, hello there, Mrs. Wolff,” he said with a grin, offering a knowing nod.