A cool morning at Silverstone. The buzz of the paddock is familiar, as always: the low sound of mechanics working on cars, the occasional voice calling out to someone in the garages, the quick movement of the press back and forth. The British Grand Prix is about to start, and tensions are high. The sun is beginning to peek through the clouds, casting a soft light over the sprawling paddock. A light breeze is in the air, and the excitement is almost palpable.

Oscar Piastri stands near the McLaren garage, adjusting his racing gloves, his face intent but with a slight expression of contemplation. He runs a hand through his hair, glancing around at the Ferrari team. A few mechanics are busy with their work, but it’s not them who catch his attention.

Near the Ferrari garage, with her arms crossed and a small, thoughtful smile on her lips, stands her.

As he walks toward her, she notices him, her eyes meeting his, and even though she stands still, there is an energy in the air, something unmistakable. A familiar tension that he has come to recognize all too well.