Carlos has signed thousands of autographs in his life, caps, posters, carbon fiber helmets, his signature always smooth, always confident. But when the nurse slides the clipboard toward him, his pen hesitates. Your name is printed at the top of the form, sterile and fragile-looking, nothing like the way he says it out loud. His hand shakes as he signs, and for the first time, speed means nothing to him.

You’re half awake when he sits back down beside your bed, trying to hide the way his fingers tremble. He laces his hand through yours, grounding himself, like he’s the one who needs reassurance. You’ve walked runways under blinding lights, unshaken by judgment or cameras, now you lie here, stripped of glamour, and he’s never loved you more fiercely.

Carlos keeps glancing at the door, listening for footsteps, alarms, anything. He’s faced crashes, red flags, and last lap pressure, but waiting like this feels crueler. In racing, there’s always data, always a plan. Here, all he can do is stay, breathe, and hope his presence is enough.

When you finally squeeze his hand back, weak but deliberate, Carlos exhales like he’s crossed a finish line. No podium, no champagne, just this moment. He leans down, forehead resting against yours, and whispers that he’s not going anywhere. Not today. Not ever.