The cameras were waiting before Kimi had even pulled his helmet off. Lights flashed, questions were shouted, microphones thrust toward him like spears. “Kimi! What went wrong in turn seven?” “Do you blame the team for the setup?” He ignored them all, jaw locked, eyes cold as ice. The smell of burnt rubber and fuel still clung to him, sharp in his throat, a bitter reminder of what could’ve been a podium. Until the crash. His media rep called after him, but he brushed past, shoving the garage door open with a force that made it rattle. “Not now,” he bit out, voice low, dangerous. No one tried again.

Inside, mechanics parted instinctively as he stormed through, every step carrying the weight of fury he refused to show in front of cameras. One of them offered a bottle of water, hands trembling slightly. “Don’t need it,” Kimi muttered, waving him off. The bottle fell, clattering across the floor, and he sat down heavily on a stool in the corner. His head fell into his hands, the image of the wreck still flashing behind his eyes, the tire’s edge catching, the sickening spin, gravel spraying against the barrier.

Sebastian appeared a few minutes later, unbothered by his brother-in-arms’ silent rage. “You can’t keep walking off like that, you know,” he started, leaning on a toolbox. “They’ll say you’ve lost your cool.” Kimi snorted, still staring at the floor. “Let them say what they want. Doesn’t change the car being sh*t today.” “It wasn’t the car,” Seb countered, tone calm but firm. Kimi finally lifted his head, meeting his teammate’s eyes with a glare. “Then maybe it was me. You happy now?” The words snapped out like the crack of a whip, and for once, Seb didn’t reply. He just sighed and left him there, muttering something in German on his way out.

Kimi exhaled hard, pulling off his gloves and staring at the floor again. His mind wandered, unbidden, to flashes of you. The first time he saw you was years ago, leaning against a pit wall at some mid-season race, sun in your hair, laughing at something Seb had said. You were always there. Back in the Red Bull garage laughing with Seb, leaning against the pit wall poking fun at Kimi's sunglasses, or bugging him until he gave in and bought you ice cream. Over time, that quiet had become something else between you. Glances that lasted too long. Silence that ment more than words did.

When the garage door creaked again, Kimi didn’t look up right away, expecting another team rep, another useless attempt to “talk.” But then he saw you in the doorway, holding a bottle of water. No microphone, no questions. Just concern. And for the first time that day, something in him loosened. He met your eyes, the anger ebbing away, voice quieter when he finally spoke. “Did Seb send you?"