The house in Madrid feels different from the paddock, quieter, warmer, filled with laughter that doesn’t echo off concrete walls. Carlos seems lighter here, trading his race suit for old T-shirts and worn sneakers, teasing his siblings while his mother insists you eat more. You watch him from the doorway, realizing this version of him never makes it onto race broadcasts.

Later, you walk through familiar streets, his hand loosely wrapped around yours. He tells stories from his childhood, scraped knees, karting dreams, moments when winning wasn’t everything yet. His voice is softer, less guarded, like he doesn’t need to prove anything in this city.

That night, sitting on the terrace under dim lights, Carlos admits he’s afraid of losing this calm once the season starts again. You remind him that home isn’t a place he leaves behind, it’s something he carries with him, even onto the grid.

When you fall asleep beside him, the noise of Formula One feels miles away. For once, Carlos Sainz isn’t a driver chasing the next race, he’s just a man at home, exactly where he needs to be.