She finally looked at him—eyes wide, glistening, equal parts mortified and honest. “I’m not… I’m not good at this. Talking about it. I’ve never really… had anyone make me feel like that before. So I don’t know what to do with it now.”
The confession hung there, heavy and honest.
He let it sit. Didn’t rush to fix it.
Then he leaned back in his seat, giving her room.
“Here’s the deal.”
She waited, breath held, cheeks still flushed.
“If you really want Min-Jae back, I’ll keep playing the fake boyfriend. We up the ante—more hands on your waist in the paddock, more late-night stories with your head on my shoulder, more everything. We make it so convincing he can’t scroll without it stinging.”
Her brows lifted slowly.
“But we add benefits.”
She blinked.
“The other night was good for me too,” he said, keeping his tone deliberately easy, almost lazy, though his pulse still hammered from her words. “Been a long fucking stretch of holding it together for cameras and sponsors while everyone else gets to let go. I’m not looking for your heart. I’m not trying to be the next guy you circle back to. I just want… more of that. Your skin. Your sounds. The way you shake when you’re close and can’t hide it. No strings. Just a physical outlet. You get to learn whatever you want—take it back to him when you patch things up. Everyone gets something.”
She shifted in her seat. Cheeks went from pink to deep rose. Her thighs pressed together—so subtly he might have missed it if he hadn’t been watching.
“Like what?” she asked, voice small, almost lost in the engine noise.
He let a slow, knowing smile curl his mouth—the one that usually got him out of (or into) trouble.
“I definitely haven’t shown you all my tricks yet. There’s the way I can make you come just with my mouth until your legs won’t hold you. The way I can pin your wrists and fuck you slowenough to make you beg. The way I can flip you over, pull your hips back, and go so deep you forget how to breathe for a second. Pick one. Or all of them. Your call.”
Her breath hitched—clear even over the engines. She looked away fast, out the window at the darkening sky, but he caught the quick rise and fall of her chest, the way her lips parted like she was tasting the idea.
“I’ll… think about it,” she said finally. Voice barely there.
He nodded. “Take your time.”
They didn’t speak again until the wheels kissed the runway in Abu Dhabi.
Even then, the silence between them felt different—thicker, warmer, alive with everything still unsaid.
???
Aria
The Yas Marina circuit glittered under floodlights like a floating jewel. Lucas crossed the line first—second world championship sealed in a blaze of champagne and confetti. The Ashworth garage erupted: screams, hugs, back-slaps, Marcus lifting Lucas off the ground like he weighed nothing. Jax climbed out of his car in third—steady, consistent, the kind of drive that kept sponsors smiling and seats secure.
Aria stood at the back of the chaos, clapping until her palms stung, smiling until her cheeks ached, trying to look like she belonged in this world of carbon fibre and adrenaline.
The team party kicked off almost immediately in the hospitality suite—music thumping, champagne flowing, mechanics andengineers mixing with sponsors and a handful of friends from other garages. Lucas was at the centre of it all, still in his race suit unzipped to the waist, hair damp with sweat and spray.
Jax found Aria near the edge of the crowd, slipping his arm around her waist as he leaned in close enough for only her to hear. “Come with me?” he murmured, giving her a small, reassuring squeeze. She nodded, letting him guide her forward through the bodies until they were near the front, where Lucas stood accepting congratulations.
When someone handed Lucas a fresh bottle of champagne and called for a toast, the room quieted just enough. Jax kept his arm loosely around Aria’s waist—thumb brushing her side in that absent, steady way he did when cameras were around—then raised his bottle with the other hand.
“To Lucas,” he said, voice carrying over the low hum of conversation. “Second world championship. Not because the car was perfect every weekend—hell, we both know it wasn’t. Not because the stars aligned or the strategy gods smiled down. You won it because you’re the most relentless bastard I’ve ever shared a garage with. You never let the car win when it wanted to bite. You never let doubt win when the points gap looked impossible. And you never let the rest of us slack off, either.” He paused, letting a small, proud smile break through as he glanced at Lucas, then briefly at Aria beside him—like sharing the moment with her grounded him. “I’m incredibly proud to call you my teammate. And even prouder to call you my mate. To Lucas—champion, twice over. May the third come just as hard-fought.”
The room erupted again—cheers, whistles, bottles clinking. Lucas met Jax’s eyes across the chaos, gave a single, sharp nod—the kind that said more than words ever could—then pulled him into a rough, one-armed hug that nearly spilled both theirdrinks. Jax laughed, clapping Lucas on the back, his other arm still loosely around Aria until the hug broke and he stepped back, pulling her a little closer again as the noise swelled around them.
Aria watched the exchange, warmth spreading through her chest.
