The paddock is buzzing. Cameras flashing. Radios crackling. Crew members running past. You don’t belong here — not really. But no one’s stopped you yet.

You hold onto your pass like a lifeline, fingers tight, thumb brushing over the sharp edge of the plastic badge. It wasn’t easy to get — your friend in PR risked her job to sneak you in. But you couldn’t sit on this any longer.

Not after the tests. Not after the silence.

It’s been four weeks since Monaco. One night. Just one. But it was him. And now… it’s his.

You spot him just ahead — laughing with someone near the McLaren hospitality unit, helmet in one hand, race suit half-zipped. He looks the same: effortless, charming, loud without trying.

Your stomach knots. What the hell are you even going to say?

You approach slowly. No plan. Just a storm in your chest.