Pole Position: Between Logic and Passion

A few stitches later and 53 painfully boring laps, the race finally came to an end.

It hadn’t been a good result for us.

Not terrible—just... forgettable.

Max won. Russell was second. Hamilton third. The kind of podium that made you question why you woke up that morning.

I stood outside the McLaren garage, trying to ignore the throbbing under the fresh bandages around my arm. The painkillers were starting to wear off, and the ache was creeping back in, dull and heavy.

Everyone around me was moving. Packing up. Debriefing. Talking about strategy and tire degradation. I just stood there, stuck somewhere between the present and the chaos of the morning.

Someone asked me if I was okay.

I lied. I said yes.

I spotted Charles in the distance, just for a second, before he disappeared behind the Ferrari garage. He hadn’t come near me again after I walked out bleeding like a scene from a horror movie. I couldn’t really blame him.

Lando gave me a small pat on the shoulder when he passed, then looked down at the bandage and winced. “You’re a menace, you know that?” he muttered.

I smirked. “Takes one to know one.”

----

The McLaren garage was finally quiet. I should’ve been resting. Instead, I was crossing the paddock again.

I didn’t know exactly why I needed to see him—I just knew I did.

When I reached the Ferrari garage, he was there. Standing near the back, facing away from me, wiping grease off his hands with a rag. The team was packing up, most of them moving in silence, and Charles looked like he was getting ready to leave. His fireproof top hung loosely from his waist, and his curls were still damp with sweat.

“Charles,” I called softly.

He turned fast—too fast, actually—and the second his eyes landed on me, his whole body froze.

“Amy?” His brows furrowed, and his eyes immediately dropped to my arm. “You’re still here?”

I nodded, suddenly aware of the pain that irradiated from the huge cut on my arm.

He took two steps toward me, eyes sharp now. “Can I see it?”

I hesitated. Then, slowly, I unwrapped a corner of the bandage revealing the deep cuts and torn skin underneath. It looked worse now—red, angry, and raw. I saw the flicker of horror flash through his expression.

“Merde,” he whispered, reaching out but not touching. “Do you realize you shoved your hand into a moving engine?”

“Do you realize you were about to drive a car that could’ve killed you?”

He exhaled sharply, frustrated.

He sighed, rubbed his jaw, then looked at the ground for a beat before meeting my eyes again. “You scared the hell out of me.”

There it was. That look again. That quiet, intense way he had of making everything feel a thousand times heavier with just a few words.

I swallowed. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.”

A long pause passed, but he didn’t move away. And neither did I.

I glanced down at where his fingers still brushed mine. My throat felt tight, and not because of the pain in my arm.