“I’m looking forward to performing later,” she said, voice light and polite, pulling her hand back smoothly.
His smile tilted higher, eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that screamed calculated charm. “Of course. You’re already stealing the spotlight without even trying.” He leaned a fraction closer, conspiratorial, lowering his voice like they were sharing a secret amid the noise. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you timed your entrance to upstage the grid. Not that I’m complaining—gives us something better to look at than tire compounds.”
Aria smiled at his charm—light, confident, effortless. Predictable, but… harmless in the moment. It was a distraction from the ache in her chest, and she let a small, amused smile slip out—the first real one since the jet, even if it was fleeting.
“You’re not wrong,” she said, tilting her head just enough to play along without committing. “I do like making an entrance. Keeps things interesting.”
Eddie chuckled—low, genuine-sounding, though she wondered how many times he'd rehearsed it. “Dangerous talent. Keep that up and half the drivers will be too distracted to race. Myself included.”
She gave a soft laugh—performative, quick, the kind that said I see you and I’m not buying, but thanks for the effort. It felt good to flex that muscle, to remind herself she could still command a conversation. “I’ll keep that in mind. Wouldn’t want to cause any crashes.”
He raised a brow, grin widening as if he'd scored a point. “Break a leg tonight, Aria. I’ll be watching—from the podium, hopefully.”
“Thanks, Eddie.” She flashed one more small smile—polite, amused, already disengaging. “Good luck out there. Drive safe.”
She kept walking, the exchange lingering like a light breeze—refreshing but gone in an instant.
Lena fell in step beside her, murmuring approvingly, “Smooth. You handled that like a pro.”
Aria’s lips curved faintly. “He’s had practice. Lots of it, from the sound of it.”
They continued down the lane, the crowd parting slightly as fans spotted her, whispers and phone cameras following. Lena drew closer once more. “That’s Lucas Moreau—Ashworth driver,current points leader and reigning world champion. Quiet type, but he's on fire.”
Aria tilted her head, keeping her voice low so only Lena could hear over the engine hum. “So… points leader means he’s winning the whole thing? How does that actually work? Do they get points just for winning, or for every race?”
Lena glanced around to make sure no one was close enough to overhear, then answered quietly as they kept walking. “Every race. The winner gets twenty-five points, second gets eighteen, down to one point for tenth place. It all adds up across the season and whoever has the most points at the end wins the Drivers’ Championship. The teams add up both their drivers’ scores to fight for the Constructors’ title. That’s why every position matters so much.”
Aria’s brows lifted slightly. “That sounds exhausting. No wonder they look like they’re carrying the weight of the world out here.”
Lucas leaned against his car, race suit on, hair damp under the lights from a quick pre-race sweat. Tall and lean, with a quiet intensity rolling off him—eyes flicking toward the timing screens mounted nearby, already half in race mode, mentally mapping out the first corners.
He looked up as she approached, gave a quick nod and a small, polite smile that didn't reach too deep—professional, not personal.
“Aria. My girlfriend Mia’s a huge fan—she’s been playing your music non-stop back home. Says your last album got her through some tough travel days.”
Aria managed a small, polite smile, genuine warmth breaking through at the mention of a fan. “That’s kind of her. Tell her I appreciate it.”
Lucas nodded once, already glancing back at the crew signaling final checks, tools whirring as they secured the car. “Yeah, she’ll be gutted she missed you here—she’s stuck handling some sponsor thing tonight.” He straightened, hand resting on the cockpit edge, fingers drumming lightly. “Good luck with the show tonight. If you ever want a track walk—no cameras, just the inside scoop—Mia would love to sort it. She's all about that behind-the-scenes stuff.”
He offered a brief, distracted smile—friendly, but clearly counting down to lights out, his mind shifting gears to the race ahead.
“Thanks,” she said softly, appreciating the no-frills interaction. It felt real, unforced.
He gave a quick lift of his chin in acknowledgment. “See you around.”
Then he turned back to his engineer, already talking strategy—tire degradation, fuel loads, overtaking points—the moment over as quickly as it began.
Aria moved on, the pit lane narrowing as they continued along the Ashworth garages.
Lena came closer, voice dropping. “And that’s Jax Callaghan—Ashworth’s other driver. The charismatic one, big personality. Australian, I think. Been in the news for some party stuff, but he's fast on track.”
Jax stood beside his car, race suit zipped up, helmet off for now, dark hair messy and damp from the humidity. Tall—much taller than the others she’d passed, easily over six feet—with broad shoulders and long legs that made the space around him feel smaller, more contained. He exuded a relaxed energy, like the pre-race jitters didn't touch him, but there was an undercurrentof intensity in his stance, muscles coiled under the fireproof fabric.
He looked up as she approached, grin sliding into place—slow, easy, relaxed, like he’d just woken up from a nap and found the best part of his day standing in front of him. Green eyes sparkled under the lights, locking on hers with a warmth that felt disarmingly genuine.
“Aria Moon,” he said, Australian accent warm and unhurried, drawing out the vowels in a way that made her name sound like a compliment. “That voice of yours… bloody hell. I caught the rehearsal earlier from the garage. Still ringing in my ears. You’ve got something special—raw, powerful. Makes a bloke forget he's about to hurl himself around a street circuit at 300 kph.”
She looked up at him—way up. He towered over her 5'2" frame, broad enough to block the floodlights behind him, casting her in partial shadow. Physically striking, she noted distantly—solid build from hours in the gym, jawline sharp under a day's stubble, the kind of presence that filled a room. The opposite of Min-Jae’s slender, almost delicate frame—the way he used to wrap around her like he was made to fit, gentle and precise. Jax looked like he could lift her one-handed and not think twice, all raw power and easy confidence.
