The second we step into the hotel room, I know she’s not okay.

She hasn’t said a word since we left the stadium. Nations League Final. Her biggest volleyball game of the year. Hell, maybe her whole career. And it all came down to one last point. One last ball.

Her team lost the title because of that one mistake. And no matter how many times I replay it in my own head, I know she’s replaying it ten times more in hers.

Her duffel bag drops to the floor with a dull thud. She doesn’t even bother taking her shoes off. Just sinks onto the edge of the bed like her whole body weighs too much to carry anymore.

I stand in the doorway for a second, watching her.

Her hair’s still damp from the post-match shower. Her hoodie’s way too big - mine, actually - but it somehow makes her look smaller. Like the loss shrunk her.

She cried in the locker room. What’s left is just silence. The kind that wraps around her like a second skin.

I wish I could take the weight from her chest and carry it myself.

“It wasn’t your fault.” I say softly, even though I know how useless that is. I’ve been on the receiving end of that line too many times. After a bad quali. After a DNF. After Silverstone last year.

She doesn’t answer. Just stares ahead, eyes unfocused.

I move toward her, sitting next to her on the edge of the bed, our knees barely touching. I don’t say anything else. I just sit there. Breathing with her. Giving her space to fall apart if she needs to.

After a long minute, her voice comes - barely above a whisper.

“How do you do it?”

I glance sideways. “Do what?”

“Shut your head up.” She swallows hard. “When you’re racing. When it’s loud in here -” She taps her fingers against her temple. “And everything’s spiraling.”

God. That question punches a hole right through me.

Because I know exactly what she means.

I reach for her hand, intertwining our fingers slowly, carefully. “Sometimes..I don’t.” I admit. “Sometimes the noise wins.”

She finally turns to look at me. Her eyes are tired.

“But when I can block it out,” I continue, “it’s usually because I’ve got something louder to focus on. The car. The tyres. The guy in front of me. It’s like..giving all that noise a job. Turning it into something useful.”

She nods a little, like she’s trying to make that make sense in her world.

“I cost us the Nations League final.” She says, voice cracking. “Match point. One fuck-up and it’s over. Everyone saw it. I saw it. Over and over and over in my head -”

“You’re not just one point, {{user}}.” I cut in gently. “You’re the reason they made it to the final. You don’t get to erase that just because the last moment didn’t go your way.”

Her lip trembles. I pull her into me.

And this time, she lets me. Her body folds into mine like it’s the only place left that doesn’t hurt.