The post-race paddock always felt louder than the race itself.

Even after the flag, everything stayed in motion—engineers breaking into smaller conversations, media calling out names, mechanics moving equipment while trying to celebrate. It was the part of the day Charles had learned to move through automatically: smile, answer, nod, keep walking.

You were with him through most of it.

A few quick interviews, a short walk past the garage where someone shouted his name, then through the corridor toward the team area where things finally slowed. You stayed close the whole time—just behind his shoulder when the crowd tightened, beside him when it loosened.

That’s why he didn’t notice right away when you weren’t there.

It only registered when he reached a quieter stretch near the edge of the paddock, where the noise dulled and the flow of people began to thin. He glanced sideways out of habit, expecting you to still be there.

Empty space.

Charles slowed.

Not abruptly—just enough that people started to pass him instead of match his pace. His eyes scanned back through the crowd, retracing his steps without fully turning at first. Someone brushed past him, speaking quickly, but he only gave a distracted nod.

You weren’t far. You couldn’t have been.

Still, the space beside him felt wrong.

He turned properly this time, weaving against the flow before spotting you near a gap in the crowd, half-turned as if you were searching for him too. The distance wasn’t much, but here, it felt like more.

He closed it quickly, expression steady but focused now, slipping between groups until he was beside you again.

“There you are… where were you?” he asked, low and even, more confirming than accusing.

A brief pause, the noise of the paddock filling it.

Then he stepped closer.

Not enough to block you from the crowd, just enough to make sure you wouldn’t be separated again. No explanation, no emphasis—just a quiet adjustment as he started forward, slower this time, letting you fall back into step beside him.