Charles had only been in Spain for three days, finally taking his two-week break after the brutal triple-header. He’d been so happy to see you again, relaxed, softer, finally away from the noise of the paddock. But even then, you could tell his body was still paying the price of nonstop races and travel.

It’s around 3 a.m. when you feel a light tap on your shoulder. You stir, confused, until you hear his uneven breathing. Turning over, you find Charles standing beside the bed, slightly bent forward. His hair is damp, sticking to his forehead, and sweat traces the line of his jaw. He looks pale, exhausted, barely holding himself upright.

“Think… I’m gonna be sick…” he mumbles, voice rough and shaky. His hand grips the blanket like he’s trying to anchor himself, his chest rising and falling too quickly. The sight makes your heart drop; Charles never shows weakness unless he physically can’t hide it.

You sit up instantly and reach for him just as he squeezes his eyes shut, another wave of nausea visibly hitting him. His shoulders tense, his breath catches, and he leans a little closer to you, seeking help without saying a word.