“I should probably get some sleep,” Jonathan said eventually, though he made no move to leave. “Tomorrow’s going to be…”
“The race of your life?”
“Something like that.” He signaled for the check, handling the transaction with the casual efficiency of someone for whom such dinners were routine. “Walk with me?”
We stepped out into the Monaco night, the harbor stretching below us like a field of stars. The air was warm and soft, carrying the sound of music from yacht parties and late-night celebrations. Monaco during race weekend was a city that never quite slept.
“After the race,” he said, “I want to see you again. Not as a driver and a reporter. Just… us. Without pretending.”
For one dangerous heartbeat, I thought about the walls I’d built, ethics, distance, rules I’d lived by long enough to mistake for safety.
But somewhere between the data sheets and the nostalgia, he’d already become the story again.
“Yes,” I said.
He kissed me, slow, careful, devastating.
When he stepped back, the city felt suspended, like it was waiting to see what we’d do next.
The kiss tasted like possibility, like coming home and jumping off a cliff at the same time. My mind was still trying to decide which it was when my heart made the choice for me.
When we broke apart, I was breathless. The air between us felt charged, fragile, like a live wire humming just under the skin. I wanted to say something clever or professional or safe, but every word had fled. All I could do was breathe and try not to show how completely the ground had moved beneath me.
“Tomorrow,” I said, “you have a race to win.”
“Tomorrow,” he agreed, “we’ll figure out what comes next.”
I watched him walk away into the Monaco night, hands in his pockets, the confident stride of a man who’d just achieved one dream and was reaching for another.
The street felt impossibly still after he turned the corner, as if the city itself were holding its breath. I could still taste him, salt, cognac, possibility, and feel the ghost of his touch like static on my skin. For a moment, I thought about running after him, saying something reckless and impossible, sealing the moment before doubt returned.
But professionalism is a muscle; it remembers even when your heart forgets. I forced myself to turn the other way, toward my hotel, where the press badge on my nightstand would be waiting to remind me who I was supposed to be.
Back in my room, I stood at the window overlooking the dark harbor, watching the reflections of the yachts ripple in the water. The city buzzed faintly with parties and engines and everything I wasn’t supposed to want.
I tried very hard not to think about what I might be getting myself into, and failed spectacularly.
10
CLOSE ENOUGH TO TOUCH
The Monaco GrandPrix began at 3 PM, but the circuit came alive hours earlier. By the time I took my seat in the media center, the principality had shed its weekend languor and tightened into something sharper. This was no longer a playground. It was an arena.
Jonathan’s pole position dominated the morning headlines.American Dreams: Hirsch’s Monaco Opportunity.Can Meridian’s Gamble Pay Off?My own piece struck a more cautious balance. Pole at Monaco was an achievement. Turning it into a win was something else entirely.
The formation lap unfolded with eerie calm. Twenty cars threaded Monaco’s streets in single file, engines snarling against the stone façades, heat shimmering off the asphalt. I watched Jonathan guide the Meridian through Sainte-Dévote, through Mirabeau, past the harbor, measured, precise. This was the last quiet moment he would get.
The cars took their places on the grid.
Five red lights illuminated above the track.
The lights went out.
Twenty cars launched forward in a violent blur of sound and motion, charging downhill toward Sainte-Dévote. Jonathan’sstart was clean, sharp, controlled, but Verstappen stayed welded to his gearbox, close enough that I could see the Red Bull’s front wing flicker in Jonathan’s mirrors on the onboard feed.
By lap fifteen, I’d stopped pretending to take notes. My pulse matched the rhythm of his lap times on the timing screens, purple, green, yellow, like a heartbeat stuttering under strain. Every time he brushed the barrier through the Swimming Pool complex, my chest tightened. Our second chance was riding those millimeters.
He wasn’t just defending position; he was defending the possibility that last night could survive daylight, headlines, and the brutal arithmetic of racing. Each corner felt like a question only he could answer:Was it worth the risk?
