He spots you across the paddock, cameras everywhere, and forces himself to keep walking as if you’re nothing more than another face in the crowd. Later, when he finds you tucked behind the motorhome, he lets out a quiet breath he’s been holding all morning. “You have no idea how hard this is” he murmurs. “Watching you stand there, pretending we’re strangers.”

He leans against the wall, rubbing the back of his neck, eyes never leaving yours. “I get why we agreed on this” he says softly. “Privacy, safety, peace… all of it. But every time someone asks me who you are, I have to lie through my teeth.” He exhales a shaky laugh. “It feels wrong. Like I’m hiding the one thing I actually want to show off.”

The bustle of the paddock grows louder, but he stays still, the tension in his shoulders finally dropping. “I keep catching myself looking for you” he admits. “Between debriefs, between interviews… even on the damn driver parade.” His voice lowers. “I’m not supposed to care this much, but I do. And I hate that I can’t reach for you in public.”

He glances toward the walkway, checking for cameras, then steps close enough that only you can hear him. “Just tell me you’re not pulling away” he whispers. “Tell me this secret world we built is still something you want.”