I keep telling myself it’s nothing - just another face in a paddock full of faces. But then I see her again.

She’s always in hospitality or tucked into a corner of the garage, never in the middle of the noise. Always slightly to the side of the others, notebook balanced on her thigh, eyebrows pinched in concentration like the world has narrowed down to pencil and paper. I notice because I shouldn’t. There are a thousand things I’m meant to notice first - tyre temps, brake feel, the way the rear steps out on entry. And yet my eyes keep snagging on her.

“Jon,” I murmur quietly one afternoon in the garage, nudging him with my elbow. I tilt my head subtly toward her, trying not to make it obvious. “Who exactly is that?”

Jon follows my gaze. “That’s {{user}}. Pretty sure she’s new. Social media team, I think.”

“Right,” I say, pretending the answer settles it.

Days pass. Then weeks. And somehow I keep finding her - top of her head behind a monitor, notebook clutched to her chest as she slips through hospitality, the same focused frown like she’s wrestling thoughts onto the page. I start looking for her without meaning to, and then I start meaning to.

During a debrief in the garage, I get that prickling sensation - like someone’s watching. I turn my head.

She’s there, hunched over her notebook. For a split second her gaze is lifted, then her chin dips fast, pencil moving again. The only proof is the quick head movement down, like she’s been caught.

Did she just look at me?

Meeting ends. People drift out. Radios crackle, footsteps fade. She doesn’t move, so locked in she doesn’t even notice the space opening around her. I walk past on my way out, and my eyes flick down without permission.

On the paper are shapes I know in my bones: the rounded blobs of my helmet, the curve of the visor, laid out in clean pencil lines. I have to look twice because my brain refuses to accept it.

But before I can look closer, someone calls my name and I keep walking.

The next time I see her again is in Australia. It’s the first race of the new season. The car isn’t what I want it to be, and after FP3 I’m still in the garage late, scrolling through data, trying to bully answers out of traces.

Suddenly, I hear soft footsteps behind me.

I glance up and there she is in the doorway, notebook hugged tight. Her eyes widen when she sees me. “Oh- sorry,” she stammers. “I didn’t know..I’ll leave you alone. Sorry.”

“No, no,” I say quickly. “It’s okay.”

She hesitates, then slips in and sits a little way off - still to the side, like she only ever exists in the margins. I pretend to focus, but I don’t. I steal glances, and then I realize she’s doing it too - quick looks up, quick looks away.

I wipe my hands on my shorts and walk over before I can overthink it. The second she notices me coming, her fingers snap the notebook shut. Unconscious or deliberate - I can’t tell. It feels like a confession.

“I always see you with that,” I say, pointing at the notebook with a small grin. “What’s the deal?”

She swallows. “Oh. It’s..nothing.”

Both hands flatten over the cover like she can physically hold a secret in place.

“I could’ve sworn I saw the blobs of my helmet on your page the other day,” I say, keeping my tone light.

Her eyes jump to mine - startled. Guilty.

I grin wider. “Oh, so I’m right?”

For a beat she looks like she might bolt. Then she exhales and turns the notebook toward me. I take it gently and flip it open.

Pencil drawings. F1 cars first - clean lines, shadows so perfect I can almost feel the curvature of carbon fiber. Tiny details she has no reason to care about. I turn pages faster, hooked, until I stop so abruptly my breath catches.

It’s my eyes staring back at me from the page, framed by my helmet, visor open. Focused. Clean. So recognizably me it makes my skin prickle.

I lift my head.

{{user}} watches me like she expects me to laugh, or get annoyed, or tell her to stop. Shoulders slightly hunched, braced for impact.

My voice comes out quieter than I mean it to. “You drew this?”