I can't .

~31~

POV Carlos:

I haven't seen y/n much this weekend—her schedule's been packed with Mercedes obligations, and mine's been a blur of briefings and simulator runs. Still, when I asked if she wanted to join Charles and me on the boat after the race weekend, she said yes without hesitation. The thought of it—open water, no team radios, just her—gives me something to look forward to.

For now, it's race day.

I head toward the garage, finally on time for once, and there's a lightness in my step. I suit up, go over the strategy one last time with my engineer, then step outside to stretch before climbing into the car.

As I glance across the paddock toward the Mercedes setup, something unexpected happens—Toto Wolff catches my eye... and raises his hand in a small, tentative wave.

I freeze for a second, unsure if I imagined it.

"Wait—did Toto just greet you?" I hear Charles say beside me, equally baffled.

"So I wasn't hallucinating?" I ask, still staring in that direction.

"No, he really did wave. That actually just happened."

We exchange a look, both trying not to read too much into it. But deep down, I can't help but wonder if maybe—just maybe—things are shifting.

I shake the thought off. I'd hoped to catch y/n before the race, even just for a second, but she's buried in prep with George. Not today.

I slide into the cockpit and close my visor, letting everything else fade. Just me and the track.

The race starts well. I feel locked in—focused, precise. But then I get stuck behind Lewis. He's being overly aggressive, edging dangerously close to my rear tires.

"He's cutting it close, Adami," I growl over the radio. "He's going to take us both out at this rate."

"I think the FIA's seen it, Carlos," Adami replies, calm as ever. "Keep your head. You'll get him at the next corner."

And I do. I swing past him with just enough room and throw a quick, irritated hand gesture as I pull ahead. Then I cut through Gasly and Ocon like they're standing still. After a clean pit stop, I find myself right behind George.

"Carlos, you're within two seconds. DRS will be active on the next straight—this is your chance."

"Copy."

I close in fast. As I pull alongside him, I notice something—his car's unstable. Before we even reach the corner, his front wing drifts too close, and he clips my rear tires. We both go flying off the track.

The second I stop, I rip off my gloves, my chest heaving with adrenaline and rage. I throw open the cockpit and jump out, ready to storm over to him—but I hesitate. Cameras. Officials. Y/n.

Still, I can't stay silent.

"You should've backed off! How can you be so reckless?" I shout, my voice sharp.

George gets out, shaking his head. "I lost control, alright? Like you've never made a mistake."

The way he says it—it's not just about the race. There's a tone, a bitterness in his voice, like he's pulling in something deeper. Something personal.

I open my mouth to fire back, but I stop myself. My fists are clenched, jaw tight, heart pounding. Instead of escalating it, I turn and walk away, my back burning with frustration.

Not just at George. Not just at the crash.

But at the fact that every time things seem to be settling down, something—or someone—throws it off track.