They stayed tangled after—sweaty, sated, breathing in sync. His weight pressed her into the mattress, comforting rather than heavy; her fingers traced lazy patterns across his back. He pressed a kiss to her temple, then her cheek, lingering there.
“Stay tonight?” he murmured, voice rough and quiet.
She nodded against his chest, arms tightening around him. “Yeah.”
Tomorrow the grind would pull them apart again — more simulator sessions for him, the studio and interviews waiting for her in Seoul.
But right now, with her warm and soft against him, London lights flickering beyond the windows, Jax didn’t want to think about calendars or separate cities. He wanted to hold onto this — the way she fit against him, the quiet sound of her breathing, the feeling that whatever was happening between them had already gone far beyond the original arrangement.
He wasn’t ready to name it.
Not yet.
But he knew he didn’t want to let it go.
???
Chapter Eighteen
Jax
Bahrain testing was hell.
The desert heat pressed down like a physical weight, even inside the air-conditioned garage—dry, relentless, sucking the moisture from your skin the second you stepped outside. The tarmac shimmered in the distance; the air smelled of hot rubber, fuel, and scorched brake dust. The new Ashworth car—sleek, aggressive, hyped by every pundit as a title contender—felt like it was fighting him at every turn. Understeer in the slow, technical corners of Turns 4 and 10, twitchy rear on exit from the high-speed kink at Turn 8, brakes locking under heavy trail-braking into Turn 1. The data screens were ugly: sector times bleeding away lap after lap, long-run pace off by half a second to the front-runners. Engineers swarmed the car between runs—swapping front wings, tweaking ride height by millimetres, adjusting suspension geometry—but nothing settled it. Every tweak fixed one thing and broke two more. The frustration built in his chest like pressure in a tyre about to blow.
Jax climbed out midway through the afternoon session of the day, helmet hair plastered to his forehead, race suit soaked through with sweat that had long since stopped evaporating. He stripped off the top half in the garage, letting the cool blast from the fans hit his skin, and checked his phone with shaking hands.
No new messages from Aria.
He’d been promising her he’d make the awards show for weeks. Mid-February. Seoul. Her presenting, not performing, but still a big night—red carpet, cameras, industry eyes everywhere. He’d told her he’d be there. Sworn it over late-night calls from the simulator rig. Now the team was talking about extending testing an extra day—critical long-run data needed before the final pre-season sign-off. If he stayed, he’d miss her show. If he left early, he’d be flying red-eye, landing with barely enough time to shower and change, and the team would quietly note his “lack of commitment” again. Whispers about divided focus had already started after Brisbane.
He typed quickly, thumb slick on the screen.
Jax: Long day. Car’s still a bastard. Might need to stay an extra session tomorrow. Really sorry. You ok if I miss the awards?
The reply came faster than he expected.
Aria: It’s ok. I understand. The team needs you. I’m not even getting an award—just presenting. Don’t stress.
He exhaled through his nose, thumb hovering. The words felt too easy. Too polite.
Jax: You sure? You said you were nervous about it.
Aria: A little. Min-Jae might be there. But I’ll be fine. Go fix the car. I’ll watch the live stream and cheer you on from my seat.
He stared at the screen. Min-Jae might be there.
That was why she wanted him there, wasn’t it? Perfect optics. Perfect jealousy fuel. The ex seeing her happy, successful, on the arm of someone else. The arrangement had always circled back to that for her—he was still the prop, the weapon, the rebound. Brisbane, London, … maybe those had blurred the lines for him, but not for her. She was still playing the long game to win Min-Jae back.
The thought twisted in his gut—sharp, unexpected. He typed before he could overthink it.
Jax: I’ll make it up to you. Promise. Melbourne in a few weeks—looking forward to it.
Aria: Deal. Be safe out there. Talk soon.
He pocketed the phone, jaw tight, and headed back to the engineers. The garage lights buzzed overhead; someone handed him a fresh bottle of water. He drank half in one go, then climbed back into the cockpit. The seat was still warm from his last stint. He pulled the belts tight, visor down, and pushed the radio button.
“Let’s go again.”
