The checkered flag had fallen, but his heartbeat was still racing faster than the car ever had. Fourth. Not first. Not even a podium. Just… fourth.

The crowd roared beyond the barriers, a blur of sound and color, but none of it touched him. He pulled into parc fermé with heavy hands, jaw clenched so tight it ached. The engine hissed as it cooled beneath him, like it, too, was exhaling disappointment.

Helmet off. He didn't even feel it leave his fingers, just heard the crash when it hit the concrete. Sharp. Final.

One kick to the side of the car. Then another. The carbon fiber didn’t dent, but it still felt good — to punish something, even if it wasn’t the car’s fault.

Heat radiated from the asphalt, thick and suffocating. Sweat rolled down his back, sticky and stale. Reporters loomed just outside the fence, but no one dared approach yet. Not like this.

And then — she was there.

Not close, not touching. Just standing with the tablet still in her hand, her race suit marked with grease and tire dust. Her presence cut through the noise more than the crowd ever could. She didn’t speak. She never rushed to fix his anger.

But she looked.

And that was enough.

The fury boiled quieter under her gaze. Not gone, but changed. No pity, no softness. Just understanding, laced with the weight of long nights, missed calls, data sheets, and the unspoken tether they both pretended not to name.

He didn’t want to look at her, but he did.

His voice was low, broken at the edges. “I told you I’d bring it home today.”

He laughed once — dry, sharp. “Guess I lied.”