It's Bahrain. The heat hits me like a wall the second I step out of the air-conditioned corridor—thick, dry, smelling of hot rubber and fuel. I've been here a hundred times, but it never gets old.

The Haas garage is a hive of controlled chaos. Mechanics move like clockwork, engineers hunched over monitors, someone shouting something about rear-wing angle.

And there he is.

Ollie.

He's already in his fireproofs, helmet tucked under one arm, talking to one of the race engineers. His hair is a mess—curls sticking up every which way like he just ran his hands through it for the tenth time this morning.

He hasn't seen me yet.

But the way his shoulders relax when I walk into his peripheral vision? That's all I need.