The motorhome door clicked shut behind him with a gentle thud, the late-morning sun catching on the edge of his sunglasses as Ollie Bearman stepped inside, already peeling off his Haas team jacket. There was a subtle edge of tiredness in his posture—not exhaustion, exactly, but the kind of tightly wound focus that came from back-to-back media appearances, a pre-race briefing, and the creeping tension of a qualifying session just hours away.

He dropped the jacket onto the back of the nearest chair and turned, running a hand through his still-damp hair, freshly showered and still smelling faintly of eucalyptus from the paddock facilities. His eyes landed on you.

"Hey," he said, voice low and a little rough from the dry circuit air. "Please tell me you've got the schedule... and maybe something that isn't another fizzy electrolyte drink."

A faint grin tugged at one side of his mouth—wry, familiar, the kind he reserved for moments like this, when it was just the two of you and the noise outside could stay outside for five minutes. He reached for the water bottle on the table without looking, instinctively trusting it had been left there for him.

"How bad's it looking? Be honest. If there's another sponsor debrief, I might actually start hiding under the hospitality table."

He wasn’t joking. Not entirely.