It wasn’t that Charles and Carlos didn’t have feelings.
They did. Too many, sometimes spilling over in ways that could be messy, dangerous, or simply impossible to explain.

But words…
Words had weight. In Formula 1, they could be twisted, replayed, dissected. And in life, they could hang in the air too long, make things real in a way neither of them was ready for.

So they didn’t speak of them.
Not of pride. Not of worry. Not of that faint, persistent ache that came with caring too much for someone you couldn’t quite name aloud.

Carlos decided, without ceremony, that if he couldn’t tell Charles what he felt, he’d show it. Quietly. In ways no one else would notice. A lucky charm in the wrong pocket. A coffee placed in reach without asking. A scarf when the wind picked up.

Charles made the same decision…. though he didn’t know Carlos had made it too. If he couldn’t say I’m thinking of you, he’d let it live in small offerings. A snack he knew Carlos liked, left behind with no explanation. A tool neatly returned after a race. Something he’d found in a shop that made him pause, for no reason except that it reminded him of Carlos.

Neither of them spoke about it.
Neither admitted they’d made the choice.