𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐄𝐑 // carlos sainz

cinco

chapter five
isabel martinéz

"It's summer," I protest.

Charles grabs the nearest blanket he can find: a bright red one with the famous Ferrari logo embedded on each corner, and he wraps me up like a burrito. With some glitters and a festive bow on top of my head, it would be impossible to distinguish me from presents underneath a Christmas tree.

"Summer or not, you are soaked. And we don't have any towels." He carefully wraps the blanket around me, and the tip of his tongue sticks out of his mouth.

I shrug my shoulders. "It's still Mexico."

"You're still soaked."

I wasn't going to win this one. "Fine."

My gaze travels through the paddock while Charles continues tucking me in. It looks like someone has thrown up the colour red all over here. The walls. The chairs. Apparently, even the blankets. I swear to have never seen that much in my life.

Engineers in red overalls hurry from car to car, fine-tuning the mechanical marvels with such care. Red tools clink and engines rumble, creating a melodic cacophony that only the racetrack could compose.

"Do you ever get sick of it?"

"Of what, Belly?"

I remain quiet for a few seconds. Amidst the red is an air of reverence. Trophies, gleaming and golden, line a display case, a flashback to the glory of past victories. Racing helmets, each bearing the personal touch of a driver, are perched on shelves like ancient relics. I couldn't even begin to imagine the rich history this room alone holds.

"All the red." I say.

Charles snorts. "Oh yes. Very sick."

I smile. We find ourselves immersed in an intimate conversation. The familiar laughter and shared anecdotes slowly dissolve the distance that had kept us apart for so long. The joy of reconnecting fills every corner of the paddock, and it feels like time has stood still.

Charles, a figure of elegance and precision, possesses an appearance that is a symphony of artistry and athleticism.

His eyes, the colour of a meadow filled with flowers, hold a glimmer of determination beneath their calm surface. Long, dark lashes frame them, casting delicate shadows that dance with every expression. The sparkles that reside within his eyes reveal just how happy he is.

"Well," he pats my shoulder, and proudly looks at me like I am some woodwork project he just finished, "that's a wrap."

It's painfully silent.

"Get it?"

"Charles," I grunt, "how do I move around?"

"Not." He pours two cups of rich Italian espresso from a crimson coffee machine, and we sit amidst the warmth of the Ferrari red.

"What?"

"You hungry?" he asks, placing my cup of coffee down on the table.

I wobble around, trying to make this blanket a little more comfortable. My stomach feels empty, and I realise that I have not eaten anything after breakfast today.