Lucas walked up, clapped him once on the shoulder—firm, brief. “Solid yesterday. You’re looking sharper.”
Jax huffed a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Trying to be.”
Lucas leaned one shoulder against the wall beside him, arms crossed, eyes on the screens but voice low. “Saw the Vegas clip. You two weren’t holding back.”
Jax’s ears went hot. He forced a grin—the easy one he’d perfected years ago. “What can I say? She brings it out in me. Hard to keep my hands off when she looks like that.”
Lucas gave a small, dry huff—almost a laugh. “I’ve seen you pull in plenty of dark corners back in the day. Ibiza, that model in the VIP section—quick, clean, gone by sunrise. But this?” He shook his head, corner of his mouth lifting. “This looked different. Less performance, more… intent. Like you actually gave a shit about the person on the other end.”
Jax looked away for a second, jaw tight before he caught himself. He shoved his hands in his pockets, shrugged like it was nothing. “She’s different. Makes the rest of it feel… quieter, I guess.”
Lucas nodded once, no pressure. “Yeah. I remember that shift.” He paused, gaze steady. “Back when Mia and I were keeping it quiet—her still at Ashworth, me trying not to blow it every time she walked past in team kit—it wasn’t easy. Felt like walking around with a live wire. But it was real. And it changed how I drove. Grounded me. Made the noise quieter.”
He shrugged, casual. “You look steadier this weekend. Lighter. Whatever’s going on, it’s working. Keep it.”
Jax didn’t answer. Just nodded once, short.
Lucas pushed off the wall, clapped his shoulder again—lighter this time. “Don’t cock it up, mate. She’s good for you. And you look like you’re starting to believe it.”
He walked off toward his side of the garage, no backward glance.
Jax watched him go.
He didn’t know how to tell him the truth.
That none of it was real.
That every touch, every kiss, every staged moment was calculated.
That the only thing that felt real was the way his body reacted to her—like it had forgotten this was supposed to be pretend. Like the intent Lucas had seen wasn’t acting at all.
He dragged a hand over his face, exhaled hard.
Then he straightened, pushed off the wall, and headed toward the car.
Fake or not, he still had a qualifying to nail.
???
The race was tight—hot track temperatures pushing 50°C, tyres degrading in half the usual time, drivers fighting to stay on the black stuff as the margins for error shrank to nothing. Jax started P6, the car hooked up perfectly in the high-speed sections but twitchy on the kerbs. Lights out came with a roar that shook the grandstands; he got a decent launch, slotting into P5 through Turn 1, wheels kissing the white line but holding. The opening stint was chaos—cars sliding on the abrasive surface, overtakes happening everywhere, the pack bunching up behind the safety car after an early spin from a backmarker.
He pitted on lap 18—undercut strategy—emerging in P7 but on fresher tyres. The second stint was where he came alive: patient in traffic, waiting for gaps, then pouncing. He passed astruggling Ferrari on the outside of Turn 10, held off a charging McLaren through the long back straight with DRS open, and nailed the second pit stop—clean, 2.3 seconds. Back out in P5.
The final stint was survival. Tyres graining, oversteer biting on every exit, fuel light. He defended hard against a Williams on the penultimate lap, blocking the inside line into Turn 1, forcing the overtake to the outside where grip was thin. The Williams backed out. Jax held his nerve. The chequered flag waved. P4. Solid points. No podium, but consistent. The team radio erupted—engineers whooping, mechanics clapping, Marcus’s gruff voice cutting through: “Solid mate. Bloody solid.”
He pulled into parc fermé, killed the engine, and sat there for a second—chest heaving, hands shaking on the wheel from the G-forces and the adrenaline. Then he climbed out.
He jogged to the barriers. The team was there—high-fives, back-slaps—but his eyes scanned past them.
Aria wasn’t waiting.
He felt the absence like a punch.
He signed autographs, posed for photos, answered the media pen with clipped answers, but his mind was elsewhere. Where was she?
???
Aria
