He laughed—soft, broken, joyful—forehead dropping to hers for a heartbeat. “God… say it again.”
“I love you,” she repeated, steadier this time, lips curving into a small, trembling smile. “I’ve loved you for a long time.”
He kissed her again—quick, fierce, sealing it—then pulled her tighter against him as the team began guiding them toward the podium area. Fireworks cracked overhead, gold and red bursting across the Yas Marina sky, reflections rippling over the water like the night was joining the celebration.
* * *
Mia
The noise still thrummed in her ears like a second heartbeat, but as Lucas’s hand stayed threaded through hers—solid, warm—she felt the last tight coil of fear unwind.
She had spent years in this world keeping everything contained: professional distance, careful words, emotions tucked behind smiles and schedules. It was safer. Safer for him, safer for her career, safer from the kind of headlines that could swallow a person whole.
But tonight he’d torn them down in one reckless, beautiful moment—declaring it to the world without hesitation. And she had met him there. Not just with a kiss. With words. Out loud. In front of everyone.
“I love you too.”
The phrase still echoed in her chest, strange and bright and terrifyingly real. She waited for the old panic to rush back—what would the papers say tomorrow? What would it cost her carefully guarded life?—but it didn’t come. Or if it did, it felt smaller now, dwarfed by the steady press of his fingers around hers and the way his eyes kept finding her even as the team pulled him toward the steps.
She wasn’t disappearing into his spotlight.
She was stepping into it with him.
They reached the edge of the podium area. Lucas glanced back, that crooked smile breaking wide as he squeezed her hand once more before letting go to climb the steps. Champagne bottles waited; the trophy gleamed under the floodlights. The national anthem began, slow and proud.
Mia stayed where she was, arms folded loosely, eyes fixed on him as fireworks continued to bloom overhead. He lifted the trophy high, head thrown back in pure, unguarded triumph, then looked down through the spray of champagne and found her in the crowd.
He blew her a kiss—small, private, unmistakable.
She smiled back, throat tight with something warmer than fear.
The season was over.
And the story they’d both been too afraid to finish had just begun.
???
EPILOGUE
Lucas
The summer sun hung low over the Canterbury plains as Lucas drove the hire car back toward Christchurch airport, windows down, warm wind rushing in with the scent of dry grass, sun-baked earth, and the faint, salty promise of the distant sea. The week on the farm had passed in a gentle, unhurried blur—days that felt borrowed from time itself.
Mornings started slow: coffee on the wide veranda, steam curling in the cool air while magpies warbled from the pine trees. Helen would appear with fresh scones, butter melting into the crumb, and Tom would settle in with stories—old shearing gangs, rogue rams, the year the river flooded the back paddock and took half the hay. Lucas listened, really listened, soaking in a rhythm so different from his own: no qualifying sessions, no strategy calls, just the slow turn of seasons and people who measured time in rain and lambing, not tenths of a second.
Long walks through the paddocks, hand in hand with Mia, grass whispering against their legs. One afternoon they followed the creek line where willows dipped low, water clear and cold over smooth stones. She kicked off her jandals and waded in, laughing when he hesitated at the edge like the current might bite. She tugged him in anyway; he splashed her, she splashed back harder, and soon they were both soaked, breathless, collapsing onto the bank in a tangle of limbs and wetclothes. The sun dried them slowly while they lay there, her head on his stomach, his fingers combing through her damp hair. The world narrowed to the sound of water and their quiet breathing. For the first time in years—maybe ever—he didn’t feel the restless pull toward the next thing, the next lap, the next fight. Here, time didn’t race. It simply was.
Evenings gathered everyone around the outdoor table under strings of fairy lights—barbecued lamb chops, new potatoes, salads Helen had grown herself. Wine flowed, stories grew taller, laughter rolled across the lawn. He tried his hand at shearing a few reluctant ewes—mostly getting in the way, earning good-natured ribbing from Tom—and learned to drive the old Ute without stalling it on the gravel tracks. He stalled it twice the first day; Mia filmed it from the passenger seat, teasing him mercilessly until he got the knack and grinned like he’d won another championship.
The best afternoon came without fanfare: just the two of them lying in the long grass behind the house, clouds drifting overhead in lazy shapes. He traced idle patterns on her arm, feeling the warmth of her skin, the steady rise and fall of her breathing. Something settled in him—deep, complete—like a knot he’d carried for years had finally loosened.
It had been exactly what he needed: time that belonged only to them. No cameras, no telemetry, no expectations. Just quiet mornings waking tangled in sheets, her head on his chest, his fingers tracing her spine as sunlight slanted through the curtains. Just evenings when she’d fall asleep against him on the porch swing, breath evening out, and he’d sit there longer than necessary, listening to the cicadas.
Now Mia’s bare feet were propped on the dash, sunglasses sliding down her nose as she scrolled through photos—snaps of him failing spectacularly at milking a cow, of them laughing in the creek, of Helen and Tom hugging him goodbye like he’d always belonged. He glanced over, caught her soft smile.
“Remember the night after Yas Marina?” he said quietly.
She looked up, eyes softening. “How could I forget?”
