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The qualifying round in Canada ended in a way no one had anticipated.
For Liam, it was a deeply disappointing day by all measures. His car simply wasn’t up to par—heavy in the corners, unresponsive on the straights—and his performance on the track reflected that frustration: low positions, lap times unworthy of his name or his ambitions. When he stepped out of the car, he didn’t even bother looking at the timing screen. He already knew—there was nothing new to see. Just more disappointment.
As for Isack, he had a promising start to his session, claiming ninth place with a bold performance that reignited hope for his team and those who believed in him. But then…
Just as he allowed himself a breath of relief, reality struck like a sucker punch. His engineers had failed to warn him that Carlos was behind on a flying lap. Unintentionally, Isack had gotten in the way. The penalty was harsh: a three-place grid drop. His effort was undone in an instant.
Later, as the paddock buzzed with preparations for the next day, Liam hesitantly asked a crew member:
— “Did Isack leave?”
The response came after a brief pause:
— “I don’t think so... I heard he’s still in the drivers' room.”
Despite the weight pressing on his own chest, Liam felt a pull to check in. Perhaps wishing for the same hand on his shoulder, had their roles been reversed.
He approached the door with hesitant steps, knocked once, then again. No reply. A flicker of doubt crossed his face. Had the guy been mistaken?
Then he noticed—the door wasn’t completely shut. He pushed it gently, careful not to make any noise.
Inside, the scene wasn’t what he expected.
Isack sat on the leather couch reserved for the drivers, his body hunched forward, face buried in his hands.
He didn’t notice Liam at first. But when he slowly lifted his head, there was no mistaking it—he’d been crying.
Silent tears traced paths down his cheeks, heavy with disappointment and heartbreak that words couldn’t express.
Liam furrowed his brows, frozen in place at the threshold, struck by the sight. He wasn’t used to seeing Isack like this. Usually, Isack was sarcastic, light-hearted, the kind of guy who met pressure with a smile, not tears.
But today… he was drained—physically, yes, but even more so on the inside.
Liam stood silently, observing the broken features of his friend, thoughts racing with questions that had no answers.
Was it really just the penalty that crushed him? Or the guilt of having unintentionally blocked Carlos?
Was it that painful sense of being reduced, in the eyes of the world, to a single mistake? A moment? A wave of ruthless insults?
Or maybe it was that voice on the radio—Charles Leclerc’s voice—sharp, cold, as if Isack didn’t deserve respect, didn’t deserve a chance to explain himself.
As if his achievements meant nothing, as if his presence was a burden on a sport that offered no mercy.
Or perhaps the real pain was even deeper than all of that—
The cruel words on social media, the sheer volume of hate poured out freely, faceless and heartless.
Yes… maybe all of it. Almost certainly all of it.
And Liam... Liam knew.
Knew better than anyone what that weight felt like—how it sneaks into your chest until you can’t breathe.
How you sit on a couch not because it’s comfortable, but because you have nowhere else to go with all that pain.
Isack wiped his tears quickly, as if trying to erase them before they could be used against him. Then he stood up abruptly, tense, hiding more shame than irritation.
He tried to compose himself. His voice came low, avoiding eye contact:
— “Liam… was the door open?”
Liam hesitated a moment before stepping forward, as if entering a sacred space that demanded permission even to speak:
— “I didn’t mean to intrude… I just thought today must’ve been rough on you.”
Isack let out a short laugh—more a sigh, laced with bitterness:
— “It was hell, man. In every sense of the word.”
He kept wiping his face, in a futile attempt to erase what couldn’t be undone. But he wasn’t fast enough to hide what Liam had already seen.
That stifled breath trapped in Isack’s chest, the trembling sob, and the tears that slipped out stubbornly despite his efforts…
They told the truth: Isack wasn’t as unshakable as he pretended to be. He was sensitive, fragile beneath the surface, more than he ever let anyone see.
Liam saw that now… and he stepped closer. His heart couldn’t ignore what he’d witnessed.
— “Forget about it…” Isack mumbled, voice barely audible, as if hoping the moment would fade away.
But Liam, without hesitation, reached out and gently took Isack’s wrist, pulling his hands away from his face, refusing to let sorrow be hidden.
He whispered, warm and sincere, full of quiet understanding:
— “It’s okay, Isack… I’m not judging you. Trust me—I’ve been through exactly what you’re feeling… all of it.”
What Liam didn’t expect, what he wasn’t prepared for, happened in the next instant.
Suddenly, and without a word, Isack leaned forward and rested his head against Liam’s chest.
As if all the pretending had drained him, and he had nothing left to hold up the facade.
Liam wasn’t the type known for emotional support. He’d never been praised for his comforting skills or his way with words in moments like these.
He was usually the one who stayed silent when others broke down, who stood on the sidelines while people fell apart.
But now… he found himself holding Isack tightly.
As if shielding him from the world—or from the pain clawing at him from within.
He ran his hands through Isack’s damp hair, not just to soothe him, but as if in that moment, he was touching something far deeper than an exhausted body—
He was touching Isack’s dreams, his failures, that little boy inside who still longed to be loved, understood, taken seriously.
Isack’s face was close—warm, damp with shy tears.
Liam wasn’t just looking at him… he felt him.
Felt his weight, his subtle tremors, that loud silence filling the space between someone who’s broken and someone who can only hold him.
Of course he would do that… How could he not? He knew.
He had been there—in that same darkness, in that same heartbreak.
He had felt the sting of public blame, the cold shoulder of the teams, the crushing of dreams beneath harsh judgment.
And so… he wasn’t holding Isack out of pity, but as someone remembering his own reflection.
And deep in his heart, he was fighting something else.
A strange, sudden, yet overwhelming urge…
to lower his head, just a little… and press a silent kiss to Isack’s head.
A kiss that had nothing to do with surface affection,
but everything to do with something deeper…