The garage smells like hot rubber, brake dust and fresh coffee - the usual mix that somehow still feels like home.

Except my place in it has changed.

I’m not climbing into the car anymore.

I’m standing behind the pit wall with a headset on, staring at telemetry screens instead of apexes.

Former McLaren driver. Now one of their engineers.

If you had told twenty-year-old me that this would be my future, I probably would have laughed and asked what kind of weird alternate universe you came from.

But life doesn’t always follow the racing line you planned.

Still..I’m here. Still with the team. Still wearing papaya.

And today there’s something else that makes this whole situation feel strangely right.

“Telemetry looks good,” I say into the radio, watching the numbers scroll across the screen. “Brake temps stable. You can push.”

A small pause.

Then her voice crackles through the headset.

“Copy that, engineer Norris.”

I roll my eyes even though she can’t see it.

{{user}} always does that.

Always calls me Engineer Norris like she’s trying to remind me that I’m not the one behind the wheel anymore.

Which is ironic, considering she’s the one making history right now.

The first female driver for McLaren.

The first time she walked into the garage months ago, the entire place went quiet for a second. Not in a bad way - more like everyone realizing something big was happening.

And {{user}} just stood there like it was the most normal thing in the world.

Helmet under her arm. Completely calm. Like she had always belonged here.

I glance up at the big screen as her car flashes across the start-finish line, the papaya orange streak cutting through the sunlight.

Fast. Ridiculously fast.

“Sector one and two purple,” I mutter.

Someone behind me whistles. I can’t help the grin spreading across my face.

When she pulls back into the garage a few minutes later, the mechanics swarm the car. Tires off, data cables plugged in, the usual chaos of a Formula 1 pit.

She climbs out of the cockpit, pulling off her helmet. Her hair is a mess from the balaclava, cheeks flushed from the heat of the car.

Her eyes immediately find me.

Of course they do.

“Engineer Norris,” she says again, walking over with that smug little smile. “Did I impress you?”

I lean back against the workbench, crossing my arms.

“You almost did.”

“Almost?”

“Yeah,” I shrug. “You missed the apex in turn three.”

Her eyes narrow instantly.

“I did not.”

“You did.”

“Did not.”

I tap the tablet in my hand and turn it toward her, showing the telemetry.

She stares at it for a second..then groans.

“Okay, fine.”

I grin. “Thought so.”

She nudges my shoulder with hers, light but familiar. We’ve been doing this dance for months now - teasing, arguing over data, pretending we’re not both ridiculously competitive.

Even though technically I’m the one who’s supposed to be calm and analytical now.

“Still weird seeing you on the other side of the pit wall,” she says quietly after a moment.

I look out toward the track. “Yeah,” I admit. “Sometimes.”

“But you’re good at it,” she adds. “You know the car better than anyone.”

I glance back at her. “And you drive it better than I ever did.”

She snorts. “That’s a lie.”

“Maybe,” I say with a small smile. “But don’t let it get to your head.”

Her laugh is bright, cutting through the noise of the garage.

For a second I forget I’m not racing anymore.

Because somehow..being here with her, helping her push the car faster, seeing her make history lap after lap -

It almost feels like I still am.