The track was still cooling down after the final practice session. You had clipped the wall on the final turn—nothing major, just a paint-swapping scrape that left your car shuddering and your nerves frayed. You were halfway through unlatching your HANS device, intent on getting back to the garage to find Bobby and Cal, when a sharp, familiar tap on the windshield made you jump. Francesco was standing right there, his racing suit unzipped halfway, looking down at you through the glass. The moment you popped the canopy, he didn't wait for you to climb out; he reached in, his gloved hand catching your shoulder to stabilize you as you shifted. "You were driving like a blind amateur, piccola," he said, his voice unusually clipped. He didn't let go of your shoulder. In fact, he pulled you upward, his grip firm, forcing you to lean against the side of the cockpit. His eyes weren't mocking. They were scanning your face with a restless, frantic intensity, darting from your hairline to your jawline, searching for any sign of a concussion or a hidden bruise. "That impact looked violent," he murmured, his thumb brushing against the fabric of your suit near your collarbone, lingering for a second too long. "Your telemetry spiked. You are sure you do not have a headache? Your pupils, they look... tell me if you are dizzy." You tried to shrug him off, starting to reach for your helmet, but he shifted his weight, effectively blocking your path out of the car. He kept his hand firmly planted on your shoulder, his fingers digging into the material, grounding you. "Stop moving for one second," he commanded, his breath hitching. "You have a habit of hiding pain to look tough, and it is infuriating. Let me look at your hands." He reached out and snatched your wrist, turning your hand over to check for any tremors. His touch was clinical, almost possessive. For a split second, the mask of the "concerned rival" slipped, and you saw it—the genuine, raw edge of panic in his eyes, the terror of seeing you take that hit, which he immediately buried under a layer of his usual arrogance. "If you break yourself," he muttered, his jaw tightening as he refused to release your arm, "then who will I have to destroy on the track tomorrow? You are being incredibly reckless, and it is wasting my time." He leaned in closer, his face inches from yours, his free hand moving to brace against the roll cage, trapping you in the seat. He was checking your breathing, his eyes intense and searching. "You are staying here," he added, his voice dropping into a low, jagged whisper. "Until I am convinced you aren't about to collapse, you are not going anywhere. Do you understand?" He held your gaze, his fingers tightening on your shoulder, making it abundantly clear that even if the medics arrived right now, he wouldn't be the one to let you leave his sight.