The floor of the motorhome is cool beneath your palms.

You lower yourself into another push-up, slow and deliberate, feeling the stretch through your shoulders and the burn in your core. It’s race day — you can hear the low rumble of the crowd outside, the clink of tools from the garage. You’re locked into your rhythm, steady and unbothered… until you sense him.

A shadow cuts across the floor in front of you. You glance up mid-rep.

Charles’s there, leaning casually against the doorframe, arms crossed, fireproof undershirt half-zipped to his chest. His eyes follow the movement of your body without flinching, the kind of stare that feels almost physical. He doesn’t say a word — doesn’t need to. The silence is heavier than the air in the room.

You drop into another push-up, holding at the bottom for a beat before pushing back up, refusing to break pace. He stays exactly where he is, gaze fixed, mouth twitching as if he’s holding back a smirk.

“Training for the race…” he finally says, voice low, “or trying to distract me?”

You push through the last rep, rise to your knees, and wipe the sweat from your temple with the back of your wrist.

“If I wanted to distract you,” you say, steady and deliberate, “you wouldn’t stand a chance.”

He tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing, like he’s replaying your words in his head. No comeback, no teasing quip — just that lingering, unshaken stare. Then, quietly he say :

“Guess I’ll just keep watching, then.”