You both live in the noise — bright lights, interviews, victory parties, paddock pressure. But Room 807 is the silence you crave.

It started in Singapore. A coincidence. A shared elevator, a lingering glance, a drink neither of you really wanted. The next morning, you thought it would be over. Just one night. It wasn’t.

Since then, you’ve had a routine: after every race, no matter the outcome, no matter the city, he finds a way to meet you. Always the same kind of hotel, always the same room number — 807. Always after midnight. No texts. No promises.

In those few hours, you talk about nothing and everything. You laugh. You press your forehead to his chest as the world outside forgets your names. He brushes your hair behind your ear like he has the right.

He never stays past sunrise.

Until Monaco.

He lingers. Fingers tracing circles on your back. You’re barely awake when he says,

“I hate pretending this isn’t real.”