Archive of Our Own

It was not that Lance trusted other people. That part was simple enough, almost boring in how obvious it felt to him. He did not trust them. He never really had, not in the way people talked about trust like it was something solid you could hold onto, something that did not slip through your fingers the moment you squeezed too tight. But that was not the part he thought about when the praise came. That was not the part that stuck with him and lingered long after the words had been said and the clapping had faded into background noise.

What he trusted, or tried to trust, was the praise itself. The shape of it. The intention behind it. He trusted it even less.

When it came from his team, it slid off him almost immediately. They were supposed to praise him. It was written into their jobs in a way, encouragement wrapped up in professionalism, in keeping morale high, in making sure their driver did not spiral mid season. They did not have to mean it for it to sound convincing, and that was the problem. Lance could never tell where obligation ended and honesty began. Even when they were genuine, it all blurred together until it felt scripted, rehearsed, something they would have said no matter who was sitting in the cockpit.

When it came from his dad, it felt even worse. That praise carried weight, history, expectations that had been piling up since he was young enough to barely see over the steering wheel. His dad praising him always felt like it came with an invisible checklist, things done right, things still missing, things that would never quite be enough. It was never just good job. It was good job this time, keep going, do better next time. Lance knew his dad was not obligated to praise him, not really, but the fact that he did made it feel less real, not more. Like love you said out of habit, like a reflex rather than a confession.

Praise from strangers should have been easier. From people who did not know him, not really, who only saw the helmet, the lap times, the result sheets. They did not know who he was alone, did not know who he was when it was just him and Fernando and the world shrank down to something quieter. They did not know how his thoughts spiraled, how he replayed mistakes until they lost their edges and became dull, heavy shapes sitting in his chest. They did not know how hard it was for him to believe anything good about himself unless it came from a very specific place.

That was why their praise felt hollow too. They praised the idea of him, not the person. A driver in green, a name on a leaderboard, a number attached to a car. It was easy to clap for that version of Lance. It did not require understanding him.

He paused mid thought, the familiar weight settling deeper as one name surfaced uninvited.

Fernando.

The thought of him always did that, slowed everything down, pulled Lance out of whatever loop he was stuck in. He shifted slightly where he sat, adjusting his posture even though there was no real reason to. The seat was not uncomfortable. He was just restless in the way that came from having too much time to think.

Fernando did not hand out praise. Not easily, not casually, not in the way others did. It was not that he was cruel or withholding, not exactly. It was just that he did not waste words. When Fernando said something, it mattered because he did not say it often. Lance knew that. He had learned it early on, back when he had still been trying to impress him with everything he did, every lap, every decision.

He frowned slightly, brows pulling together as he searched his memory.

Had Fernando ever actually praised him.

The question lodged itself in his mind and refused to leave. Lance rolled it around, examining it from every angle, hoping the answer would reveal itself if he looked hard enough. He thought back over the years they had known each other, the seasons blurring together, moments stitched together by adrenaline and exhaustion. He remembered the kisses, stolen and quiet, moments of warmth that felt like they existed outside of time. He remembered the podiums, standing shoulder to shoulder, champagne spraying, cameras flashing while everything inside him felt unreal. He remembered the double points finishes, the shared satisfaction, the brief glances that said more than words ever could.

But praise.

Had Fernando ever looked at him and said good job. Not a correction, not a suggestion, not a neutral observation about pace or strategy. Just good job.

Lance could not remember a single clear instance.

That realization sat heavy in his chest, not sharp enough to hurt, but dense, pressing. It was not anger he felt. It was not even disappointment. It was something quieter, something that felt dangerously close to doubt. He wondered if he had simply forgotten, if the moments existed but had been buried under everything else. Or if they had never happened at all.

He glanced up from where he was sitting, eyes flicking toward the entrance almost instinctively. Fernando was not here yet. The space across from him remained empty, unchanged. The quiet stretched on, broken only by distant sounds that barely registered. Lance exhaled slowly, shoulders dropping a fraction as he realized how deep in his own head he had gone.

He tried to trace the path that had led him here, to this specific spiral of thoughts. It had started with the result, with seeing it printed out so plainly.

P4.

It was good. Objectively, undeniably good. Better than he usually did, better than many people expected him to do. The kind of result that should have made him feel lighter, steadier, more confident. The kind of result people used as proof, as validation.

And yet none of the praise that followed had done anything for him. Not really. It had not filled the hollow space inside his chest. It had not quieted the voice that whispered that this had been luck, circumstances lining up just right, a fluke that would not repeat itself. Every compliment felt like it bounced off that voice and disappeared.

He shifted again, hands resting loosely in his lap, fingers flexing once before stilling. He knew Fernando would be back soon. They would talk about the race, about what went right and what went wrong. Fernando would be honest, as he always was. He would point out the mistakes without sugarcoating them, would acknowledge the good parts without making a big deal out of them. Lance could already imagine the conversation, the rhythm of it familiar and almost comforting in its predictability.

Then they would go home.

That thought grounded him more than anything else had so far. Home, whatever shape it took, wherever it happened to be, meant Fernando. It meant quiet evenings and shared space and the absence of cameras and expectations. It meant being seen without the helmet, without the result sheet attached.

Lance leaned back slightly, letting his head rest for a moment as his gaze drifted. Maybe Fernando did not praise him because he did not need to. Maybe the way he stayed, the way he showed up, the way he shared both the highs and the lows was his version of it. Or maybe Lance was just trying to justify something that still felt like a missing piece.

He did not have an answer. Not yet.

All he knew was that the door would open soon, that Fernando would walk in, and that this moment of waiting, of doubt, would slip into the background like so many others had before. Until the next time praise came his way and he found himself wondering, again, why none of it ever felt like enough.

In the back of his mind, he knew it would not go away. The thought sat there, quiet but persistent, like something lodged too deep to be shaken loose. He could ignore it for a while, distract himself with routine, with conversation, with the noise that always followed a race weekend, but it would still be there when things went quiet again. Why would it leave. It had never left before.

He shifted slightly, the movement small and almost unconscious, as if adjusting his body might somehow rearrange his thoughts into something more manageable. It did not work. The question returned immediately, uninvited and unwelcome.

Was Fernando ever proud of him.

He did not know the answer. That was the worst part. If the answer had been no, outright and unmistakable, he could have learned to live with it. He could have accepted it, tucked it away somewhere and moved forward. If the answer had been yes, even once, even quietly, he could have held onto it like proof, like something solid he could come back to on days like this. But he did not know, and the not knowing made his chest feel tight in a way he could not quite explain.

The uncertainty made him uncomfortable, restless. It was not a dramatic feeling, not sharp or overwhelming. It was dull and heavy, like a weight he had grown used to carrying but never stopped noticing. He realized, distantly, that he had never asked. He had never outright asked Fernando if he was proud of him. The thought of doing so made his stomach turn. It felt childish, needy, like asking for reassurance he had no right to demand.

He knew the facts well enough. He did not score well a lot. He knew the numbers, the statistics, the comparisons that followed him everywhere. He was painfully aware of how often he came up short, how often his name sat lower on the list than it should have. That awareness never really left him, no matter how much he tried to ignore it.

And yet, Fernando had always tried to get rid of his doubts. That was true. He could not deny that. Over the years, in moments that were never loud or dramatic, Fernando had chipped away at them, one quiet conversation at a time. He had made sure Lance did not think his finishes were the only thing that defined him. He had said it plainly, more than once, that results were not everything, that there was more to being a driver, more to being a person. He had spoken about consistency, about effort, about learning, about showing up even when things went wrong.

Most of the time, Lance listened. Most of the time, he believed him.

Those moments were easier. When Fernando spoke with that calm certainty, when his words felt steady and grounded, Lance found himself leaning into them without thinking. It felt safe to believe him then. It felt like Fernando saw something in him that he himself struggled to see, and that alone made it easier to keep going.

But other times, the belief did not come so easily.

Other times, doubt crept in through the cracks, quiet and insistent. Lance wondered, silently and carefully, if there was something Fernando was not saying. He wondered if those reassurances were meant more to soften the blow than to tell the truth. He wondered if Fernando was just trying to protect him from something harsher, something that would hurt too much to hear out loud.

Was he disappointing him.

The thought made his chest tighten, his breathing shallow for a moment before he forced himself to slow down. He did not want to spiral. He was too familiar with how quickly that could happen once he let himself go too far down that path. Still, the question lingered, heavy and uncomfortable.

Was Fernando just trying to make him feel better without lying to him.

That possibility felt worse than an outright lie. The idea that Fernando might be choosing his words carefully, skirting around the truth just enough to avoid saying something that would break him, made Lance feel small. It suggested a kind of pity he did not want, a quiet resignation that hurt more than anger ever could.

He felt something twist in the pit of his stomach, a slow forming knot that made him shift again, fingers curling briefly before relaxing. The feeling was unpleasant, a mix of anxiety and something dangerously close to grief. He tried to push it away, to tell himself he was overthinking, that this was just another moment of insecurity that would pass.

But the thought kept building.

Maybe Fernando had long since given up on him.

The idea settled over him like a shadow. Not sudden, not dramatic, just there. Maybe Fernando had accepted his limits, whatever they were, and stopped expecting more. Maybe he had stopped hoping for better results, stopped believing Lance would ever truly live up to the potential people talked about. Maybe that was why the praise never came. Maybe it was easier not to say anything at all than to offer words that felt untrue.

Maybe Fernando did not bother with praise because it would be a lie.

That thought stung in a way that surprised him. It was sharp enough to make his throat feel tight, his eyes burning just slightly before he forced himself to blink it away. He did not want to dwell on that reaction, did not want to acknowledge how much it hurt to even consider.

Maybe Fernando did not think he deserved it.

Lance swallowed, jaw tightening. He knew he did not deserve praise a lot of the time. He knew that. He was not delusional about his own performance. He knew he made mistakes, knew there were races where he was sloppy, unfocused, not good enough. He knew there were moments where he looked exactly like what his critics said he was. A shitty driver sometimes. He had thought it himself often enough that the words barely shocked him anymore.

He could admit that much, at least in his own head.

But times like these were different.

Times like these, after a race where he had done well, where he had held his own, where he had finished stronger than expected, the absence of something felt louder. He did not need endless praise, did not need exaggerated compliments or empty words thrown his way. He just wanted something small, something simple, something he could believe.

He wished he had praise from someone he could trust.

Not from the team, not from his dad, not from people who saw him as a result or a name on a screen. He wanted it from someone who knew him in the quiet moments, who saw him when he was stripped of the helmet and the expectations. He wanted it from Fernando, because if it came from him, it would mean something. It would be real.

Lance leaned back slightly, eyes unfocused as he stared at nothing in particular. He tried to tell himself that praise was not everything, that he should not need it to validate his effort or his worth. He had told himself that countless times before. Sometimes it even worked.

But right now, the doubt sat heavy and unresolved, and no amount of logic seemed capable of pushing it away. He did not know if Fernando was proud of him, and that uncertainty hurt more than he wanted to admit. It left him suspended in a space between belief and doubt, between hope and resignation.

He stayed there, quiet and still, letting the thoughts pass through him without resolution. He knew they would not disappear completely. They never did. All he could do was sit with them, wait for the moment to pass, and hope that someday, somehow, he would hear the words he was too afraid to ask for.

At some point Lance had zoned out. He did not know exactly when it happened, only that it must have been somewhere between staring at the floor for too long and letting his thoughts spiral into places he tried not to visit. It was probably when he started trying to come to terms with the idea that Fernando was disappointed in him. That thought had a way of sinking its teeth in and refusing to let go. It sat heavy in his chest, a slow ache that pressed down on his lungs until every breath felt deliberate.

The noise around him had faded into something distant and dull. Voices blurred together, footsteps echoed without meaning, and the world felt muted, as if someone had turned the volume down without telling him. Lance barely registered the passing seconds. His mind kept replaying the session, every corner, every moment where he could have done something better. He could see it all so clearly now. The lines he could have taken tighter. The braking points he could have trusted more. The confidence he had hesitated to claim.

Disappointment was a familiar companion. He wore it like a second skin, one that clung no matter how much he tried to shrug it off. It came from years of being almost good enough, from knowing he had the tools but never quite believing he deserved them. And when it came to Fernando, that feeling intensified. Fernando’s opinion mattered more than he liked to admit. It always had.

He was so lost in those thoughts that he did not notice the presence in front of him at first. It was only when something warm and solid touched him that he snapped back into the moment. Fingers tilted his chin upward, firm but gentle, guiding his gaze whether he was ready or not.

Lance blinked, disoriented for half a second, before his eyes focused. Fernando stood in front of him, close enough that Lance could see every familiar line on his face, every crease formed by years of smiles and concentration. His expression was calm, open, and that somehow made the guilt surge even stronger.

Lance felt it rise in his throat, thick and uncomfortable, threatening to choke him if he let it. He swallowed hard and forced his lips to curve upward, pulling together a small smile that did not quite reach his eyes. It felt fragile, like it might break if Fernando looked at it for too long.

Fernando smiled back at him easily, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“P4, hm?” Fernando hummed, his tone light, almost casual, as if they were discussing the weather instead of a result that had clearly lodged itself deep in Lance’s chest.

Lance nodded, the movement small and hesitant. He did not trust his voice just yet. He was silently willing Fernando to say something else. Anything else. A simple good job would have been enough. Just a few words of approval, something solid he could hold onto and tuck away for later when the doubts came creeping back in.

For a moment, he thought Fernando might say it. There was a pause, brief but loaded, and Lance found himself holding his breath without realizing it.

“Well isn’t that surprising?” Fernando laughed.

The sound hit Lance harder than he expected. His stomach dropped instantly, a cold, hollow sensation spreading through him. It felt like missing a step on the stairs, like that sharp lurch when your body realizes too late that there is nothing beneath your foot. He knew, rationally, that Fernando probably did not mean it like that. Fernando rarely meant things cruelly. He was blunt, yes, but not unkind. He did not know what was going on inside Lance’s head. He did not know how fragile Lance felt in that moment.

But knowledge did not dull the pain. The word echoed anyway, sinking in deeper than it had any right to.

Surprising.

Of course Fernando had not thought he would score well. Why would he have? Lance never scored that high. They both knew that. It was an unspoken truth, one that hung between them even when neither dared to acknowledge it directly. Lance was consistent, Lance was solid, Lance was dependable. He was not the one people expected to shock the timing sheets.

The laughter still rang faintly in his ears as his mind twisted the word into something sharper. Surprising meant unexpected. Surprising meant that even now, after everything, Fernando had not truly believed in him. It felt like confirmation of every doubt Lance already carried, every fear that whispered he was only ever going to be good, never great.

His shoulders tensed without him realizing it. He felt smaller somehow, like the space he occupied had shrunk. He did not want Fernando to see that. He did not want to give the impression that he was affected, that a single word could unravel him so easily.

“Yeah,” Lance said weakly, finally forcing his voice to cooperate. He tried to laugh it off, pushing air out of his lungs in something that was supposed to sound casual. It did not quite work. The laugh came out thin, lacking conviction, and he hated himself a little for that too.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, suddenly aware of his hands, unsure what to do with them. He shoved them into his pockets, fingers curling into the fabric as if anchoring himself there might stop everything from spilling out. He kept his eyes on Fernando, searching his face for any sign that he had misunderstood, that there was something more behind the comment.

Fernando still looked relaxed, unaware of the storm he had stirred. There was no malice there, no disappointment etched into his features. If anything, he looked amused, perhaps even proud in his own way. That realization only made the ache sharper. Lance wished, briefly and selfishly, that Fernando would notice. That he would pause, rethink his words, and offer something softer in their place.

Instead, Lance nodded again, a reflex more than a conscious choice. He felt the familiar urge to minimize himself, to brush past his own achievements before anyone else could do it for him. If he downplayed it first, maybe it would hurt less when others followed suit.

Inside, his thoughts continued to race. P4. It was a good result. He knew that, logically. He had driven well, better than he usually allowed himself to believe. There were moments during the session where everything had clicked, where the car felt like an extension of his own body. He had been confident then, fearless in a way he rarely let himself be.

But standing here now, under Fernando’s gaze, that confidence felt distant, like a memory already fading at the edges. All he could think about was how easily his achievement had been reduced to a surprise. How quickly something he was quietly proud of had been reframed as an anomaly.

He forced himself to breathe, slow and steady, just like he had been taught. In through the nose, out through the mouth. He told himself not to overthink it, not to read too much into a single comment. Fernando did not mean to hurt him. Fernando never did.

Still, the feeling lingered, heavy and stubborn, settling deep in his chest as he stood there with a strained smile and a laugh that did not quite sound like his own.

Time went by in a blur, slipping through Lance’s fingers without him ever really noticing. One moment he was still in the paddock, surrounded by noise and movement and expectations, and the next he was standing in the quiet of their shared hotel room, the door clicking shut behind them. He could not remember the walk there. He could not remember the elevator ride, or the brief exchange at the front desk, or even the sound of the hallway carpet beneath his shoes. It all blended together into something hazy and unreal, like it had happened to someone else entirely.

Lance was still wearing the same clothes he had on at the paddock. The fabric clung to him in all the wrong places, stiff with dried sweat and heat. His shirt stuck to his back, uncomfortable and heavy, and his fireproofs felt suffocating now that the adrenaline had worn off. He was still sweaty, still gross, and the sensation made his skin crawl. He hated this part more than anything. The aftermath, when everything slowed down and he was left alone with the residue of the day, both physically and mentally.

Normally, he would have showered immediately. Normally, he would have scrubbed himself raw, letting the hot water wash away the grime and the lingering smell of rubber and fuel and effort. Normally, movement would have come easily, automatically. But tonight, he could not will himself to move. His body felt heavy, like gravity had increased without warning. Every small action seemed impossible, even something as simple as peeling off his shirt.

So he stood there, then sat, then slumped onto the edge of the bed without really deciding to do so. The mattress dipped under his weight, grounding him in a way that almost hurt. He stared at the floor, at the unfamiliar pattern of the carpet, and tried not to think too hard about anything at all.

Fernando broke the silence eventually. He had glanced at Lance, really looked at him, and offered the shower with an easy familiarity that came from sharing too many hotel rooms to count.

“You go first,” Fernando had said, already loosening his watch. His tone had been casual, unforced.

Lance had shaken his head almost immediately. The refusal came out automatic, reflexive, before he had even fully processed the offer. “I’m fine,” he had muttered, not trusting himself to elaborate.

Fernando had paused for just a second, studying him, but he did not push. He only shrugged, the motion loose and unbothered, and turned toward the bathroom. “Alright,” he said simply, as if this was nothing out of the ordinary.

Now, the sound of running water filled the room, muffled but constant. The shower was on, steam beginning to creep out from beneath the bathroom door. Lance knew the door was unlocked. He knew that if he stood up right now, walked those few steps, and knocked, he could tell Fernando to get out and let him shower instead. He could even say it sharply, could let it sound controlling or impatient or rude. Fernando would not take it personally. Fernando would just nod, shut the water off, and step aside without complaint.

That knowledge sat heavy in the back of Lance’s mind.

He knew, too, that Fernando would understand if Lance said he needed to be alone. Even without knowing why. Even without any explanation at all. Fernando had always been like that. He had an uncanny ability to read between the lines, to sense when something was wrong even if Lance never said it out loud. He would not pry. He would not demand answers Lance did not have.

In Lance’s mind, the scenario played out vividly. He could almost see it. Fernando’s voice would soften, losing that teasing edge it sometimes carried. He would come closer, sit beside Lance on the bed, and run gentle fingers through Lance’s hair in a way that was grounding and calm. The touch would be steady, reassuring, like an anchor. It would say, without words, that everything was okay. That Lance was safe. That he was not alone in this.

The thought made Lance’s chest tighten painfully. It made his eyes burn, tears threatening to spill over if he let himself linger on it for even a second longer. He swallowed hard and looked away, clenching his jaw. Crying felt too dangerous right now. If he started, he was not sure he would be able to stop.

The water continued to run.

Fernando had not praised him.

The realization surfaced again, sharp and insistent, refusing to be ignored. It had been there all evening, a dull ache beneath everything else, but now it pushed forward, demanding attention. Fernando had not said good job. He had not clapped him on the shoulder or smiled with pride or told him he had driven well. He had not mentioned the overtake, the one Lance had replayed in his head a dozen times, the one that had felt clean and brave and perfectly timed.

Nothing.

Instead, there had only been that laugh. That word. Surprising.

Lance knew it was unfair to fixate on it like this. He knew Fernando did not owe him praise. He knew that Fernando showed care in different ways, subtle ways, ways that were not always verbal. But knowing something and feeling something were two very different things, and right now, his feelings were loud.

It hurt. It hurt more than he wanted to admit, even to himself.

Lance had been surprised by the results too. He had not expected P4. He had gone into the session hoping for something solid, something respectable. He had tried to keep his expectations low, because that was safer. Expect less, hurt less. That had always been his strategy. Seeing his name that high on the timing screen had sent a jolt through him, equal parts disbelief and quiet pride.

But hearing surprise from Fernando was different. It carried weight. It made Lance feel like his own belief in himself had been misplaced, like he had overstepped without realizing it. As if his success was an exception rather than something earned.

He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, hands dangling uselessly between them. A drop of sweat slid down his temple and into his eye, stinging slightly. He blinked it away, irritated with himself for not having showered yet, for not having the energy to care.

The room smelled faintly of soap and steam now, mixing with the lingering scent of sweat and fabric and exhaustion. The contrast felt almost mocking. Clean and dirty, relief and tension, all existing in the same small space.

Lance pressed his palms against his thighs, grounding himself in the sensation. He reminded himself that Fernando cared. He knew that. He had seen it in a thousand small moments, in late night conversations and shared jokes and quiet understanding. One lack of praise did not erase all of that.

Still, the absence felt loud.

He stared at the closed bathroom door, listening to the steady rhythm of the water. He wondered if Fernando was relaxed in there, letting the heat loosen his muscles, completely unaware of the storm brewing just outside. The thought made Lance feel strangely lonely, even though they were only a few feet apart.

Part of him wanted to knock. To say something. To admit that he was struggling, that he needed reassurance, that he needed to hear he had done well. The vulnerability of that possibility made his stomach twist. He was not good at asking for things like that. He never had been.

So he stayed where he was, unmoving, letting the moment stretch on. He let the hurt settle, heavy and quiet, pressing down on him as he listened to the water run and tried to convince himself that this feeling would pass.

Time passed, slow and thick, and the feeling still sat heavy in his chest. Of course it did. It had not shifted, not even a little, not when he tried to breathe through it, not when he pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth and swallowed around the ache. Fernando had long since been out of the shower. Lance knew that. He knew because the bathroom no longer held the fog of someone else’s heat, because the air had cooled, because the sound of footsteps and quiet movement in the other room had faded into nothing. Fernando had left the shower for him, an unspoken offering, a small kindness Lance felt entirely unworthy of. And yet Lance had barely been able to force himself up, barely able to make his legs work long enough to get into the bathroom at all.

It felt like wading through something dense and invisible, like every step took more effort than it should. He shut the door behind him, the soft click of it closing sounding far too loud in the quiet. His hand moved on instinct, turning the handle on the water without really thinking about it. The pipes groaned faintly in response, a familiar sound, but Lance did not step in. He just stood there, rooted to the cold tile, shoulders slightly hunched, head angled down as if the floor itself had something important to say.

He did not look in the mirror. He was very careful not to. He kept his eyes trained anywhere else, on the corner of the sink, on the faint water marks on the glass, on the place where the grout between the tiles had darkened with age. He did not want to see the face that would be waiting for him there. He did not want to see the face of someone who had failed again, someone who had disappointed someone who mattered far too much. He did not want to see the face of someone useless, someone who could not seem to get it right no matter how hard he tried. He did not want to see his own eyes looking back at him, heavy and tired and full of things he did not know how to say.

So he stood there, letting the water run, letting the sound fill the space. It was easier to focus on that than on the thoughts pressing in from all sides. The steady rush of water was something solid, something real, something that did not ask anything of him. Minutes passed like that, measured only by the way his legs began to ache and the way the room slowly warmed as steam gathered. Time stretched and blurred, each second indistinct from the last.

When he finally moved, it was slow, deliberate, like his body was working against him. He stripped slowly, each piece of clothing feeling heavier than it should have been as he pulled it off and set it aside. His movements were sluggish, uncoordinated, like he was moving through a dream he did not want to be in. His fingers fumbled with fabric, his shoulders slumped further with every small action. He was tired in a way that went far beyond physical exhaustion. It sat deep in his bones, in his chest, in the space behind his eyes that ached with unshed tears.

He wanted to cry. The urge was there, sharp and insistent, clawing at his throat. It felt like it might spill out of him at any second, like all it would take was one wrong breath or one careless thought. But it stayed trapped, as it always did, leaving him with nothing but the hollow ache of it. Crying felt useless too. Everything felt useless. The effort it would take, the vulnerability of it, the way it would not change anything afterward. He could already imagine the way he would feel once it was over, just as empty, just as heavy, just as broken.

He stepped into the shower at last. The water hit his skin immediately, hot and unrelenting. It stung, a sharp, biting sensation that made him suck in a breath through his teeth. For a moment his body tensed on instinct, muscles tightening as if to pull away, but he did not. He stayed where he was, letting the water pour over him, letting it burn. It felt almost good in a twisted way, like the pain was grounding, like it was something he could point to and say, yes, this is real.

The heat spread across his skin, turning it pink, then red, the sensation almost overwhelming. It was too hot, he knew that, but he did not reach for the handle to turn it down. He let it sting, let it burn. He deserved it. The thought came easily, settling into place like it had always been there. He deserved to feel some kind of pain, some kind of punishment for everything he had done wrong. For the disappointment he had put Fernando through. For the way he could still see it in Fernando’s eyes, even when he tried to hide it behind patience and understanding. For all the fuck ups he had accumulated over time, each one stacking on top of the last until the weight of them felt unbearable.

The water ran down his face, over his hair, down the back of his neck and along his spine. It traced every line of him, every place where tension had settled and refused to leave. He tilted his head forward slightly, letting the spray hit the back of his neck directly. The sensation made him shudder, a small involuntary movement that he did not bother to suppress. His hands hung uselessly at his sides, fingers curled slightly, nails pressing into his palms hard enough to leave faint half moon marks.

His thoughts spiraled as they always did when he was alone like this, when there was nothing to distract him. Every mistake replayed itself in vivid detail, every moment where he had fallen short, where he had said the wrong thing or not enough, where he had tried and still failed. Fernando’s face was there in his mind, not angry, not shouting, but quiet and tired, and somehow that was worse. Lance swallowed hard, his throat tight, his chest aching with the effort of holding everything in.

The water continued to pour over him, relentless, washing over his skin and down the drain, carrying nothing with it no matter how much he wished it would. He leaned forward slightly now, bracing one hand against the tiled wall, his forehead dropping down until it nearly touched his arm. His shoulders shook once, then stilled. He focused on his breathing, on the rise and fall of his chest, on the way the steam filled his lungs with damp heat.

He thought about how easy it had been for Fernando to step out of the shower, to dry off, to move on. Not because Fernando did not care, but because Fernando always seemed to know how to keep going. Lance did not know how to do that. He did not know how to shake off the weight of things, how to forgive himself even a little. All he knew was this, the heat of the water, the ache in his chest, the certainty that he was the fuck up in every equation. The fuck up that he was.

The shower felt like a small, enclosed world, the sound of the water drowning out everything else. He stayed there, letting the minutes continue to pass, letting the water run until his skin felt raw and his thoughts blurred at the edges. It did not fix anything. He knew it would not. But for now, it was all he could manage.

It ended sooner than Lance wanted it to. He had known it would, of course. He had known the water would not stay hot forever, that the heat he had clung to so desperately was borrowed time, nothing more than a temporary mercy. Still, when the temperature finally shifted, when the comforting burn dulled and then faded into something lukewarm and wrong, it brought with it another kind of sadness that settled heavily in his chest.

The cold crept in slowly at first, an almost imperceptible change, like the world tipping slightly off balance. Then it was unmistakable. The water no longer stung. It no longer hurt in a way that felt deserved. It was just water again, ordinary and unremarkable, and with that realization came the sharp awareness that the momentary relief was over. The pain he had welcomed, the punishment he had let himself sink into, had an ending. Everything always did.

Lance stayed there for a few seconds longer than necessary, letting the now cooling water run over him as if he could will it back to how it had been. His shoulders slumped further, his head bowing slightly, droplets falling from his hair to the tiled floor below. The steam had begun to thin, the mirror likely clearing now, though he still did not look. He felt exposed without the heat, without the sting, like something fragile had been taken away from him too soon.

Eventually, he reached out and turned the handle, cutting the water off. The sudden silence felt loud, oppressive. The sound of the shower had filled the space, had given him something to focus on, something to hide behind. Without it, every thought rushed back in at once, crowding his mind. He stepped out of the shower robotically, feet meeting the cooler tile with a faint shiver that ran through him. He grabbed a towel, drying himself without much thought, his movements automatic, practiced, like he had done this a thousand times before while feeling exactly like this.

Dressing came next, just as mechanical. Clean clothes, soft fabric against skin that still felt too sensitive, too aware. He pulled on each piece slowly, hands moving but his mind lagging behind, stuck somewhere between the heat he had lost and the reality waiting for him outside the bathroom door. He did not bother to check his reflection even then. He kept his gaze down, focused on buttons, on seams, on anything that was not his own face.

When he was done, he opened the bathroom door and stepped out into the main part of the hotel room. The air outside felt different, cooler, less forgiving. The lights were softer than the harsh brightness of the bathroom, casting everything in muted tones. He walked forward and let his clothes fall onto the floor near the edge of the bed, right next to Fernando’s discarded clothes. Fernando had insisted on putting their dirty clothes there earlier, claiming it was better than shoving them into their bags immediately. He had said it casually, like it was nothing, like it was just another small, practical decision. Lance remembered nodding at the time, too tired to argue, too tired to care.

Seeing the clothes now, tangled together on the floor, stirred something uncomfortable in his chest. It was domestic in a way that made his throat tighten, a quiet intimacy he did not feel he deserved. He stood there for a moment longer than necessary, staring down at the mess of fabric, his toes nearly brushing against it.

When he finally lifted his head, the first thing he noticed was Fernando.

That was almost always how it went. Instinct or not, his attention gravitated there without effort, without conscious thought. Fernando was sitting on the bed, posture slightly tense despite his attempt to look relaxed. He looked older in moments like this, not in a way that made him seem weak, but in a way that spoke of experience, of having seen and carried too much. Lance’s eyes found him easily, like they always did, like they were meant to.

The second thing he noticed was Fernando’s furrowed brow.

It was subtle, a small crease between his eyebrows, but Lance saw it immediately. He always did. It was the look Fernando got when something was wrong and he was trying not to push, trying to give space while still staying close enough to catch Lance if he fell apart. That realization made guilt twist sharper in Lance’s chest. He hated that look. Hated knowing he was the reason for it.

The third thing he noticed was Fernando’s voice.

It cut gently through the quiet, soft in a way that made Lance’s chest ache. It was the same tone Lance had thought about earlier while standing under the burning water, the same careful, concerned tone Fernando used when he was worried but did not want to overwhelm. It was patient. It was kind. It was everything Lance felt unworthy of.

“Lance, are you okay?” Fernando asked.

The question hung in the air between them, simple and devastating all at once. Lance froze where he stood, his body going stiff as if caught off guard, even though he should have expected it. Of course Fernando would notice. He always noticed. There was no hiding from him, not really.

“You have been off ever since the race,” Fernando continued, his voice still gentle, still steady.

Lance swallowed hard. His mouth felt dry, his throat tight, like the words he might try to say would get stuck halfway out. He shifted his weight slightly, suddenly too aware of where he was standing, too aware of himself. The room felt smaller now, like the walls had edged closer in while he was in the shower.

He did not answer right away. He was not sure how to. The truth felt too big, too messy to try and explain, and lying felt impossible under Fernando’s gaze. He could feel it on him, warm and attentive, not demanding but present. That almost made it worse.

His fingers curled at his sides, then relaxed again. He stared at a spot on the floor near Fernando’s feet, anywhere but his face, anywhere but those eyes that seemed to see straight through him. His mind raced, thoughts overlapping, tangling together until none of them felt usable. How was he supposed to explain the heaviness that clung to him, the way the shower ending had felt like losing the only thing holding him together? How was he supposed to put into words the way he felt like a constant disappointment, like every step forward was followed by two steps back?

He thought about the race, about the way it had gone wrong, about the moments replaying in his head over and over again. He thought about the expectations, the pressure, the way it all piled up until breathing felt like work. He thought about Fernando, about how much he cared, about how badly he wanted to be better, to be enough.

The silence stretched between them, thick but not uncomfortable, at least not for Fernando. Lance knew Fernando would wait as long as it took. That knowledge pressed down on him just as much as the concern in Fernando’s voice had. He hated being the reason for that patience, hated needing it.

Lance shifted where he stood, the movement small and almost hesitant, like he was unsure if even that much was allowed. His weight rocked from one foot to the other, toes curling slightly against the carpet as if grounding himself there might help. When he finally spoke, his voice came out softer than he intended, casual in a way that felt rehearsed.

“Yeah.. I’m fine,” he said, the pause deliberate, carefully placed. “Just tired.”

He brushed it off like it was nothing, like it was ordinary, like the heaviness clinging to him was just another part of the routine. Like his behavior was just another thing to shrug at, another footnote in a long list of Lance being Lance. He kept his tone light, unbothered, even added the faintest hint of a nod, as if that would sell it better. As if acting normal could make it true.

They both knew it was not.

Lance had always been quieter than most, always a little awkward around the edges. Silence came naturally to him, pauses stretching longer than other people expected, words chosen carefully and sometimes not at all. Fernando knew that better than anyone. He knew when Lance was simply withdrawn, when he was tired but steady, when he was lost in his own thoughts but still present. This was different. This was not Lance being himself. This was not shyness or fatigue or a need for space.

This was Lance shutting him out.

It sat heavy in the room, that difference, unspoken but obvious. Lance could feel it too, could feel the way his words rang hollow even to his own ears. The lie felt thin, fragile, like glass that would shatter the moment it was touched. He stared at the wall just past Fernando’s shoulder, eyes unfocused, hoping against hope that it would be enough, that Fernando would let it go, that he would accept the excuse and move on.

Fernando did not.

His frown deepened, the crease between his brows carving itself more firmly into place. He did not raise his voice. He did not sigh or shake his head. He simply looked at Lance, really looked at him, and spoke with quiet certainty.

“You are lying.”

The words landed gently but decisively, like a truth stated without any room for argument. They were not angry. They were not accusatory. They were just honest. That somehow made them hurt more.

Lance let out a small sigh before he could stop himself, the sound slipping past his lips as his shoulders slumped a fraction. It was barely audible, but it felt loud in the stillness of the room. He knew Fernando knew. He had known it the moment the words left his mouth. Still, a part of him had hoped, stupidly, that Fernando would not call him on it. That he would let the lie stand, let Lance retreat back behind it where things felt safer.

Fernando never did that, though. Not when it mattered.

Lance did not argue. He did not try to defend himself or insist again that he was fine. He just gave a small shrug, one shoulder lifting higher than the other before dropping back down. It was an empty gesture, offering nothing, saying everything and nothing at the same time. An admission without explanation. A way of saying yes, you are right, but I do not know how to give you more than that.

The shrug felt heavy, like even that simple motion took effort. His arms felt useless at his sides, fingers flexing and then stilling again. He kept his gaze down now, fixed somewhere near Fernando’s knees, anywhere but his face. He did not trust himself to look up and see what might be there.

Fernando’s brow furrowed further.

Concern sharpened into something more focused, more intent. The patience was still there, but now it was edged with worry, with the unmistakable realization that this was not something that could be brushed aside. Fernando shifted slightly on the bed, leaning forward just a bit, his posture open, attentive. He did not crowd Lance, did not close the distance between them, but the way he angled himself spoke volumes. He was here. He was not going anywhere.

Lance felt that attention like a weight pressing down on him, not suffocating, but undeniable. His chest tightened, breath catching just slightly before he forced it to even out again. He hated this part. Hated being seen so clearly when he felt like he was barely holding himself together. Hated knowing that Fernando could tell something was wrong even when Lance tried so hard to hide it.

The silence stretched between them, thick and charged. Lance could hear the faint hum of the room, the distant noise from outside the hotel, the soft rustle of fabric as Fernando shifted again. Each sound felt magnified, like the world had narrowed down to just this moment, this space, this unspoken conversation.

He thought about saying something else. Anything else. A better lie, maybe, one that sounded more convincing. Or a half truth, something vague enough to satisfy Fernando without opening the door to everything else spilling out. But nothing came. His mind felt blank, exhausted, like it had already spent all its energy just getting him through the last few hours.

The truth sat heavy on his tongue, too big, too tangled to shape into words. How was he supposed to explain that he felt like he was drowning in his own thoughts? That the race had left him hollow and raw, that every mistake replayed itself on a loop he could not shut off? That he felt like a burden, like a constant disappointment, especially to the man sitting in front of him?

He swallowed, jaw tightening briefly as he pressed his lips together. His shrug had said enough, too much maybe, and now there was nowhere left to hide. He could feel the familiar urge to retreat, to shut down, to make himself smaller and quieter until the moment passed. That instinct had kept him safe for a long time. It was second nature.

Fernando’s gaze did not waver.

There was no judgment there, no frustration, just concern and something softer underneath it. Care. That realization twisted something painfully in Lance’s chest. He did not feel worthy of that care, not when he could not even be honest, not when he could not give Fernando a straight answer.

He shifted again, a restless movement, foot sliding back a fraction as if he might turn and retreat into the bathroom, into any space where he could be alone. He did not. He stayed where he was, caught between the urge to run and the knowledge that running would only make things worse.

The room felt warm, too warm, like the air itself was pressing in on him. His skin still carried the faint heat from the shower, but now it felt uncomfortable, like a reminder of something that had already slipped away. He wrapped his arms loosely around himself, not quite a hug, just a way to keep his hands busy, to give them something to do.

“Lance, please.”

The way Fernando said it was quiet, almost careful, and it landed in Lance’s chest with a painful jolt. It was not a command, not sharp or impatient. It was a plea, low and gentle, and it made Lance’s heart lurch violently as soon as he heard it. His breath caught for a second, like his body had reacted before his mind could keep up. Of course. Of course he was upsetting Fernando. The realization crashed into him all at once, heavy and undeniable.

Fuck.

The word echoed silently in his head, bitter and sharp. He had been so wrapped up in himself, in his own spiraling thoughts and self loathing, that he had barely considered what this must feel like for Fernando. He had shut down. He had lied. He had stood there refusing to explain anything while Fernando watched, worried and patient, trying to reach him. It felt selfish now, painfully so. He hated that about himself, hated how easily he could get lost in his own head and forget that there was someone else standing right in front of him, someone who cared.

Lance’s gaze flicked up without him really deciding to do it. It was instinctive, pulled by the sound of Fernando’s voice. Their eyes met, and the sight of Fernando’s expression made something twist painfully in Lance’s chest. There was worry there, open and unguarded. Not annoyance. Not disappointment. Just concern, deep and genuine. It made his stomach drop. Seeing that look directed at him made everything feel worse, like undeniable proof that he was causing harm just by existing in this moment the way he was.

He shifted where he stood, the movement restless and uncertain. His shoulders tensed, his jaw tightening until it almost hurt. His teeth pressed together briefly, a silent attempt to keep himself together. He opened his mouth to speak, intending to say something safe, something small, something that would make this easier. Nothing came out. The words caught somewhere in his throat, tangled and heavy. He closed his mouth again, breathing shallowly through his nose, eyes still locked on Fernando for just a second longer before dropping away.

He looked down at the floor, anywhere but at the man in front of him. The carpet beneath his feet suddenly felt like the most important thing in the room. He stared at it, at the faint pattern, at a barely visible mark near his shoe. His hands curled slightly at his sides, fingers twitching as if they did not know what to do with themselves. The silence stretched out, thick and heavy, filling every corner of the room.

Fernando did not speak again right away. He waited.

That patience made Lance’s chest ache even more. It felt like pressure, not forceful but constant, like something gently but firmly asking him not to run. Lance swallowed, his throat tight. He could feel his heart beating fast, each pulse loud in his ears. He knew he could not keep doing this. He could not keep hiding behind shrugs and half answers. The truth was sitting there, pressing against his ribs, demanding to be let out.

He took a shaky breath.

When he finally spoke, his voice came out quieter than he meant it to, hesitant and uncertain, like he was afraid the words might shatter as soon as they were said.

“..Are you not proud of me?”

The question felt fragile the moment it left his mouth. It hung in the air between them, exposed and trembling. Lance barely recognized his own voice. It sounded small, stripped of its usual guarded tone. Saying it out loud made his chest tighten painfully, like he had just admitted something he was not supposed to say.

He hesitated again, doubt rushing in immediately. His shoulders hunched slightly, as if he could physically pull the words back if he wanted to. But it was too late. The thought had been given a voice now, and once it was out, it refused to go back into hiding.

“Like, do I disappoint you?” he continued, the words coming out awkward and uneven, like he was struggling to shape them properly. “Am I disappointing you?”

As soon as he finished speaking, his gaze flicked down again, unable to hold Fernando’s eyes any longer. His posture folded inward, subtle but unmistakable. He felt awkward standing there, suddenly hyper aware of his own body, his own presence. He felt upset in a way that sat deep and heavy, not sharp enough to explode but constant enough to hurt. He felt hurt, too, even though he did not yet know what the answer would be.

The questions had not come out of nowhere. They had been living in his head for a long time, growing quietly in the background. They crept in during late nights, after races that did not go the way he wanted, after mistakes that replayed themselves over and over again no matter how hard he tried to forget them. They were there when he lay awake staring at the ceiling. They were there in the shower, under the burning water, echoing louder the longer he tried to ignore them.

Was Fernando proud of him.

Did he disappoint him.

They felt stupid sometimes, childish even, like questions he should have outgrown by now. But that did not make them hurt any less. If anything, it made them worse. Fernando’s opinion mattered to him more than he liked to admit. More than results. More than numbers on a board. Fernando mattered in a way that was personal, deep, and terrifying.

Lance kept his eyes fixed on the floor, jaw tight. His fingers curled and uncurled slowly, a nervous motion he barely noticed he was doing. He waited for the answer, bracing himself for it, even as a part of him desperately hoped he would not hear what he feared.

The silence stretched.

Fernando did not respond immediately.

Each passing second felt heavier than the last. Lance’s chest felt tight, his breathing shallow. His mind raced ahead, filling the quiet with imagined responses, imagined disappointments. He told himself he deserved whatever answer came. He told himself he had asked for it.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, he lifted his eyes again.

Fernando was still looking at him.

But not the way Lance had expected.

There was no anger in his expression. No frustration. No trace of disappointment. Instead, Fernando looked confused. Genuinely confused. His brows were drawn together, but not in the familiar furrow of concern. This was different. This was bewilderment, like Lance had just said something that did not make sense to him at all. His mouth was slightly open, as if he had started to say something and then stopped, caught off guard by the question.

Fernando just looked at him, eyes searching, expression open and stunned, like he was trying to understand how Lance could even think that.

“Lance, what?” Fernando asked.

The confusion in his voice was immediate and unmistakable, cutting through the heavy air of the room. It was not sharp or defensive, just genuinely startled, like the question had come out of nowhere and knocked the wind out of him. His brows pulled together as he looked at Lance, eyes narrowing slightly in an attempt to understand. “Why do you think that?” he continued, still sounding bewildered. “What did I do to give you that impression?”

The questions landed one after the other, calm but direct, and Lance felt his chest tighten in response. He shifted where he stood, weight moving uneasily from one foot to the other. The carpet felt too soft beneath him, like it was swallowing him up, making it harder to stay grounded. Guilt settled heavily in his stomach, thick and nauseating. He had not meant for it to come out like this. He had not meant to put that look on Fernando’s face.

He hesitated, lips parting slightly before pressing together again. His eyes dropped to the floor, avoiding Fernando’s gaze. He could feel it burning into him anyway, patient but insistent, waiting for an answer. The silence stretched, and with every passing second Lance felt worse. He felt selfish again, like he was creating a problem where none existed, like he was accusing Fernando of something unfair.

He swallowed, throat tight.

“..I just..” he started, voice trailing off almost immediately.

The words felt clumsy, awkward, like they did not want to be said properly. He shifted again, shoulders drawing in slightly, posture folding inward. His hands hung uselessly at his sides, fingers twitching with restless energy. He took a breath, shallow and uneven, trying to steady himself enough to keep going.

“Out of everyone in the paddock,” he said quietly, carefully, “it feels like you’re the only one who has never been proud.”

The admission felt heavy the moment it left his mouth. He flinched internally, waiting for some kind of reaction, but Fernando remained silent, listening. That silence pressed down on Lance’s chest, making it harder to breathe.

“You never say anything about my performance,” Lance continued, voice wavering just slightly now. “I mean, everyone else does. Engineers, team staff, people I barely know. Even when it’s not great, they still say something. But you don’t.”

He paused again, doubt creeping in immediately. His jaw tightened, and he shook his head faintly, as if he could physically dismiss the thought. But it was too late. He had already started, and the words kept coming, pushed forward by months of quiet insecurity he had never given space to before.

“I just had hoped maybe with this finish,” he went on, his voice softening further, “I might get a good job. Or an I’m proud of you.”

The confession sat between them, raw and unguarded. Lance’s fingers curled slightly into his palms, nails pressing in just enough to ground him. He could feel his heart pounding, fast and uneven, like it was trying to escape his chest. He swallowed thickly, the motion visible, his throat working around the weight of what he had just said.

“It’s stupid,” he added quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush now, like he needed to take them back. “I know.”

The self criticism came automatically, a reflex he did not even think about anymore. He shook his head again, a small, frustrated movement. His shoulders sagged, the tension in them finally giving way to something that looked a lot like defeat.

“I know it’s stupid,” he repeated, quieter this time.

He stared at the floor, at a spot just in front of Fernando’s shoes, unable to look up. His face felt warm, embarrassment and shame flooding through him all at once. He felt exposed, like he had peeled back something deeply personal and immediately regretted it. The room felt too quiet, too still, like even the walls were listening.

He did not mean to accuse Fernando. That was not what this was. He knew Fernando cared, knew it in a hundred small ways that never needed words. The way Fernando stayed close after bad days. The way he checked in without making a big deal out of it. The way he defended Lance when it mattered. But words mattered too, even if Lance hated admitting that they did. And the absence of them had settled into him slowly, quietly, until it felt like proof of something he had been afraid to name.

Lance rubbed his thumb against the side of his index finger, a nervous habit he had picked up without realizing. His breathing felt shallow, controlled, like he was holding himself together through sheer force of will. He waited for Fernando to respond, bracing himself for whatever came next.

He expected correction. He expected reassurance delivered calmly, logically. What he did not expect was the way Fernando stayed quiet for a moment longer, processing. Lance risked a glance upward, just briefly, before looking away again.

Fernando looked stunned.

Not offended. Not angry. Just deeply, genuinely surprised. His expression had softened, confusion still etched into his features, but now there was something else there too. Something like realization. Like a piece of a puzzle clicking into place.

Lance’s chest tightened again at the sight of it.

“I didn’t mean it like,” Lance started again quickly, panic creeping into his voice now. “I know you care. I know you do. I just thought maybe… I don’t know. I thought if I did better, if I fixed things, then maybe you’d say it.”

He cut himself off, lips pressing together as the words ran out. He shook his head once more, frustrated, embarrassed, hurt. He felt stupid for wanting something so simple, for letting it get to him this badly. He had been strong enough to deal with worse than this. He told himself that over and over again.

But wanting to hear that someone was proud of him did not feel like too much to ask. Not really.

The silence stretched again, thick but not empty. Lance stayed still, shoulders hunched slightly, gaze downcast. He felt smaller now than he had moments before, like admitting this had taken something out of him. He waited, heart in his throat, for Fernando to finally say something, anything, that would make this moment make sense.

“I didn’t know you wanted to hear that,” Fernando said slowly.

His voice was calm, but there was a carefulness to it now, like he was choosing every word with intention. He was not rushing to fill the silence, not brushing past what Lance had just said. He looked at him steadily, eyes soft but serious, as if he was trying to understand the shape of something he had not seen before. “Lance, I didn’t know,” he continued, then stopped himself, the sentence unfinished.

Fernando let out a soft sigh, one that sounded more thoughtful than frustrated. His shoulders dipped slightly with it, tension easing in a way that felt genuine. He glanced away for just a moment, then back to Lance, as if gathering his thoughts, as if realizing the weight of what had just been revealed.

“This has clearly been building up for a while,” Fernando said quietly.

Lance remained still, silent, his gaze fixed somewhere on the floor between them. He did not trust himself to look up yet. His chest felt tight, emotions tangled together in a way he could not separate. Hearing Fernando say that out loud made everything feel more real, like this was not just something Lance had made up in his own head.

“If it has been bothering you,” Fernando continued, his brow knitting together slightly, “why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

There was no accusation in the question. No disappointment. Just confusion mixed with concern, like he was genuinely trying to understand how this had slipped past him. That somehow hurt more than if he had sounded angry. Lance’s fingers curled slowly at his sides, guilt pressing down on him again. He did not have a good answer. He had never been good at explaining himself, at asking for things he needed. Especially not things like this.

Fernando frowned faintly, but it was not directed at Lance. It looked more like frustration with himself.

“I am always proud of you, Lance,” he said.

The words were spoken plainly, without hesitation, like a fact Fernando had never questioned. Lance’s breath caught slightly at that, though he did not move. Fernando went on, his voice softer now, warmer.

“You are my love,” Fernando said. “My light.”

Lance’s chest tightened painfully at that. He squeezed his eyes shut for just a second, overwhelmed by the sincerity in Fernando’s tone. The words felt too big, too kind, especially compared to the way Lance had been talking about himself only moments before.

“I would do most anything to keep you shining,” Fernando added quietly.

There was a pause after that, a brief silence where the words seemed to settle into the space between them. Lance could feel his heart pounding, the sound loud in his ears. He swallowed, throat tight, still unable to look up.

Fernando shifted, then stood.

The movement drew Lance’s attention immediately, even if he did not lift his gaze. He could sense Fernando coming closer, the distance between them closing step by step. Fernando moved slowly, deliberately, like he did not want to startle him. Lance remained frozen in place, unsure how to respond, unsure what he was allowed to feel.

“I love you,” Fernando said.

The words were gentle but firm, spoken with certainty. They did not feel like a response pulled out in the heat of the moment. They felt steady, grounded, like something Fernando had always known.

“And I apologise, Lance,” he continued softly, “for not realising sooner.”

The apology hit Lance harder than he expected. His chest tightened again, emotion swelling up fast and unexpected. He had not come into this wanting an apology. He had not thought Fernando had done something wrong. And yet hearing him take responsibility anyway made something inside Lance crack.

Fernando stepped close enough now that Lance could feel the warmth of him, could feel his presence without needing to look. A moment later, Fernando wrapped an arm around Lance’s waist, pulling him in gently but securely. The contact was careful, as if Fernando was still giving Lance the choice to pull away if he wanted to. Lance did not.

He stiffened for just a fraction of a second, then slowly relaxed into the hold, his shoulders sagging as if the weight he had been carrying was finally being acknowledged. Fernando pressed a soft kiss to Lance’s shoulder, the gesture tender and grounding. It was not rushed. It was not dramatic. It was full of affection in a way that made Lance’s chest ache.

“I am proud of you,” Fernando said quietly, close now, his voice warm against Lance’s skin. “You did so well today, Lance.”

Lance’s breathing hitched slightly. His hands twitched, then finally lifted, gripping lightly at the fabric of Fernando’s shirt as if to anchor himself. He still had not spoken. He was not sure he could without his voice breaking.

“You always make me proud,” Fernando added.

The words settled deep, sinking into places Lance had not realized were still hurting. He closed his eyes, leaning just a little more into Fernando’s hold. The tension in his jaw eased, his shoulders loosening as if he had been bracing himself for far too long.

For the first time since the race, since the shower, since the spiral in his own head, the weight in his chest shifted. It did not disappear completely, but it softened, made room for something warmer, something steadier. Fernando’s arm around him was solid and real, his words sincere and unguarded.

Lance stayed quiet, but this time the silence felt different. It felt safe.