Thomas.
Alone, finally.
Sitting on the edge of the leather couch, forearms on his knees, gaze on the flames like they owe him something.His bag already packed at his feet, phone in hand, probably reading congratulatory messages.
I hesitate at the edge of the carpet, fingers tapping the side of my thigh.
I could leave this alone.Let the day settle as it is; let us both regroup in the upcoming week.But the words have been clawing at me since the race ended.
I step closer.
He hears me, turns his head slightly.
"I just wanted to say…"
My voice is lower than I expected.I clear my throat.
"Don't do that again."
He straightens, brows drawing in.
"Do what?"
"Try to kill yourself to prove something."
His eyes lock onto mine.Calm but with a hint of anger.
Then he shrugs, like it doesn't quite matter.
Like, I don't matter.
Nice pretence, Tom.
"You think I did that for you?"
The words land soft, like a blanket.But the heat underneath is unmistakable.
I hold eye contact longer than I should.
"No," I lie."I don't think I have that kind of impact."
We're standing close now.Closer than optics would like.
For a second, I almost say it.
About Matteo.About how it looked.About how I didn't push him away and should have.About howthis—whatever this is between us is dearer to me than any cocky Italian racer or a contract that he offers.
My hand twitches at my side.
And then my phone buzzes.
I glance down.
Matteo.
Of course.
I hesitate.
