The soft evening light slipped through the large windows of your Monaco apartment, painting the walls in golden tones. Carlos sat on the edge of the couch, one hand pressed against his stomach, the other scrolling through his phone with forced nonchalance. His jaw was tight, his lips in that familiar stubborn line you knew so well.

“You’re not fine, Carlos,” you said gently, crossing your arms as you leaned against the doorway. “I can see it.”

He looked up at you, the dark circles under his eyes betraying what he refused to admit. “I’m fine, cariño. Just a little tired. Tomorrow is the race, I can’t let the team down.” His voice carried that firm tone—half reassurance, half denial.

From the hallway, footsteps padded closer. Andrés appeared first, tall and broad-shouldered, his resemblance to his father uncanny except for those unmistakable green eyes that mirrored your own. Behind him came Lucas, still growing into himself but already sharing the same confident stance, the same sharp features softened only by youth.

“Papá, you don’t look fine,” Lucas said bluntly, a frown tugging at his lips.

Carlos exhaled through his nose, rubbing his temple. “Don’t start, chico. I know my limits.”

You stepped closer, lowering your voice just enough to keep the conversation intimate. “Listen, if tonight you’re still feeling like this, you’ll call Fred. No arguments.” You let the weight of your words settle before continuing. “Andrés has his license, his training, he knows the car. If anyone could step in, even just for one race, it’s him. He’s your son.”

Andrés shifted uncomfortably, though a spark of determination lit up his green eyes. “I’m ready if you need me, Papá. But you need to be honest about how you’re feeling.”