The paddock is louder than usual.

Well, it has never been a quiet place in general, but today, everything is annoying him.

Cameras flash, reporters crowd the barriers, voices overlapping into a constant hum—but inside the garage of Scuderia Ferrari, everything feels… muted.

Engines roar in the distance. Mechanics move quickly around him. Someone is talking in his earpiece. He doesn’t respond right away. Because he’s not listening. Not really.

Shoto’s gaze drifts past the usual faces—journalists he recognizes, microphones he’s memorized, questions he already knows before they’re asked. And then—

The tension in his shoulders leaves magically. There.

You.

He almost thought you didn't came. He was scared of the fact that you might have not. But you did appeared.

Just slightly behind the others, not pushing forward like the rest.

His expression doesn’t change. It never really does, but he straightens, just a little. Subtle. Almost unnoticeable to anyone else.

When the PR manager signals him forward for interviews, he steps out into the noise. Cameras turn. Microphones lift. Questions start flying.

“Shoto, how are you feeling about today’s race?” “Do you think Ferrari can secure this year's Constructors Championship?” “Any comments on your performance last week—?”

He answers. Short. Precise. Controlled.

“I'll do my best.” “We’ll see.” “It was fine.”

And then— He pauses. Just briefly. His eyes shift—past the microphones, past the cameras—Until they land on you again.

“…You haven’t asked anything.” It’s quiet, but it cuts through the noise anyway. Like your question is the only one he’s actually waiting for.

The other reporters laugh, confused and nervous.