It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t declared. But it was unmistakable. This was a new phase built on messages sent from different time zones, across oceans, in the quiet certainty that whatever happened next, they were no longer doing it alone.
“Welcome to Madrid,” the gate agent said as Sloane stepped off the jet bridge. Heat met her immediately—not the sticky kind, but dry and heavy, carrying the smell of pavement and jet fuel. Sunlight flooded the terminal in a way that felt almost aggressive after California’s softer glow, bouncing off glass and steel and making everything look newly polished. This city didn’t ease you in. It announced itself.
Normally, Sloane would meet up with Reese at the Grand Prix circuit, in this case, the Madring. But after the past two weeks apart, Reese had messaged that she’d meet Sloane at the airport, choosing not to wait a second longer than she had to for them to be together again.
It felt strange to say, but these two weeks apart had only made her feelings for Reese grow. She had become part of Sloane’s everyday life. It was Reese she told if she spilled a jar of marinara sauce in the kitchen or laughed with about whatever ridiculous thing Marco Faz said during his interview withGrid and Glory. Sometimes they called just to briefly hear each other’s voices. The distance had been brutal, and the constant messaging felt like trying to warm your hands over a screen, comforting, but never enough.
Sloane made her way to baggage claim, her heart hammering with excitement as she scanned the throngs of people waiting for luggage, squinting at screens, or trying to find their loved ones.
Then she saw her.
Reese was impossible to miss, not because she was taller or louder than anyone else, but because she lookeddifferent. Sharper. Stronger, somehow. Maybe it was the easy confidence in her stance, but whatever it was, it hit Sloane low andimmediately. She was dressed in training gear, which today meant a fitted T-shirt, track pants slung low on her hips, and a ball cap pulled down over her eyes. But there was nothing casual about the way she filled the space. Reese lookedbeautifulin a way that stole air, the kind of beauty that wasn’t about effort but about being exactly Reese.
Sloane briefly forgot that they were in an airport. The noise, the chaos, the rules all fell away. All she could see was Reese, strong and tan and devastatingly familiar, her mouth curved into that half-smile Sloane knew was a tell. The one Reese wore when she was trying not to show how much she felt.
The moment their eyes locked, Reese stopped moving, like the world had been put on pause just long enough for Reese to take her in. A full smile blossomed on those ridiculously kissable lips.
For two weeks, they’d lived in pixels and time stamps, in jokes typed at odd hours and long silences filled with imagining what the other one was doing or wearing. None of it had prepared Sloane for this.
Reese crossed the distance first.
She didn’t hesitate or slow. She dropped her phone somewhere near her pocket and caught Sloane by the waist, momentum carrying them together. Sloane barely had time to breathe before Reese’s arms wrapped around her in a devastatingly familiar fashion. She never wanted to leave that embrace.
“There you are,” Sloane breathed, forehead pressed to Reese’s collarbone, aware of her warmth, the press of muscle, and the smooth skin she’d missed so desperately.
“I can’t believe you’re finally here,” Reese said. “Hi.”
“Hi,” Sloane whispered, holding her tight, memorizing every detail. The familiar smell of her clean cotton laundry detergent,the melon of her shampoo, the warmth of her skin. She’d missed all of it.
They stayed like that longer than was reasonable or probably polite as travelers maneuvered around them. Reese’s hands slid up Sloane’s back, thumbs pressing in as if checking that she was real. Sloane’s fingers curled into the fabric at Reese’s waist.
“You look—” Reese started, then stopped and shook her head. “I had sentences earlier. Real ones. They made sense. They were good. Now, nothing.” She pantomimed her thoughts floating away.
Sloane laughed softly, still a little stunned to be standing in front of Reese in real time. “You flew all the way here and forgot how to talk?”
“I forgot everything except you,” Reese said, then leaned in again, forehead touching Sloane’s. “I missed this. I think we can’t be apart anymore. I’m declaring it.”
“Oh? Are you moving to Venice Beach between races?”
“Or you could come to Enstone and pick up an accent. British Sloane is wildly intriguing to me.”
Sloane laughed. “I do make a mean blueberry scone.”
“Do you know what that does to me? Domesticity, when you live the kind of travel schedule that we do, is maybe my sexiest fantasy.”
“Let’s see what we can establish in Madrid.”
Reese was officially lodged by Laurens Racing at a neighboring hotel to the one booked by the academy, but Sloane couldn’t imagine a world where she and Reese didn’t stay together for the length of their time in Madrid. She knew one thing for certain: it wouldn’t be long enough.
The ride into the city felt suspended in time, the two of them tucked into the back seat while Madrid streamed past the windows in flashes of color and motion. She caught scooters weaving through traffic and café tables spilling onto sidewalks.Reese sat close enough that their knees brushed every time the car slowed, close enough that Sloane could feel her warmth without touching. They talked easily, laughing about nothing and everything, the sound of Reese’s voice filling the space like it belonged there. Every so often, Sloane caught herself stealing a glance at Reese’s profile or her hands folded loosely in her lap, at the sideways tug of her smile, and each time, the sight landed fresh and disarming, like she’d forgotten all over again how much she liked being near her. She was feeling lucky, incredibly lucky. Outside, the city hummed and honked and lived, but inside the car, it was just them, happy and unguarded, already counting the minutes until they could be alone.
“What’s on your schedule?” Sloane asked, which was code forhow much time do we have?
“I have the fan zone at four. Samara’s coming to film the whole thing. We’ll probably do a quick one-on-one on camera after. A meeting in the paddock after that. A quick round of press where they’ll ask me the same questions about being female in a?—”
“Male-dominated sport,” Sloane finished. “I wish I could tell you that it eventually goes away. It doesn’t.”
“I think that just means we need to pull up the others, invade F1 as a group.” Reese smiled against the headrest. “That’s where you come in.”
