You're adjusting the camera equipment near the team lockers. Everyone’s cleared out for lunch — except you, double-checking lenses for post-qualy interviews.

The door swings open behind you. Footsteps. Then a pause.

You turn. Charles.

T-shirt damp from the heat, Ferrari boxer briefs, wet hair sticking to his forehead. He blinks, freezes when he sees you.

"...You’re not supposed to be here."

"I work here," you shoot back, hiding your smirk.

He squints. "Don’t get used to the view."

The silence is heavy. You should go. Really.

But instead you say, "If I said I’ve seen better?"

He looks over his shoulder. "Then I guess I’ll have to work on my form."