Mia
Mia returned to the conference room long after the crew cleared out, staring at her laptop screen until the words blurred. The headlines were already writing themselves:
MOREAU BOMBS AUSTRALIAN MEDIA DEBUT.
ARROGANCE ON DISPLAY AHEAD OF MELBOURNE GP.
She closed the tab, rubbed her temples, tried to breathe through the familiar spiral—failure, visibility, exposure.
Footsteps approached. She looked up.
Jax wandered in, two takeaway coffees in hand, looking like he’d just escaped a sponsor chat. He spotted her hunched over the table, paused, then headed straight over.
“Still at it?” he said, sliding one coffee across. “Double shot, no sugar. Figured you’d need the kick.”
She wrapped her hands around the cup. Warmth seeped in. “Thanks. How’d you know I was here?”
Jax dropped into the opposite chair, legs sprawled. “Saw the light on when I came for a top-up. You looked like you could use company that doesn’t bite.”
She managed a tired half-smile.
“Don’t take the radio thing to heart,” he continued. “Lucas has been doing the brooding thing since forever. Thinks silence makes him mysterious. Mostly just makes him hard work.”
Mia studied him. “You’ve known him long?”
“Long enough to know he’s not a total prick. Just… defensive.” Jax took a sip, winced at the heat. “Learned young that opening up gives people something to use. So he snaps first.”
She exhaled. “I’m not sure I’m equipped to crack that.”
Jax grinned, gentle. “You’re doing fine. You don’t back down, don’t suck up, and you call it straight. That’s exactly what gets through eventually. He’s scared of the off-track stuff blowing up—not the driving, the bit where people see past the helmet and decide he’s overhyped. Give him space to stuff up and live. He’ll come round. Grumpily.”
Mia looked down at the coffee. Steam curled.
Jax stood, stretched. “Right. I’ll leave you to it. He’ll grunt anapology eventually. Promise.”
He paused at the door. “And Mia? You’re killing it. Keep not letting him hide.”
She watched him go, easy stride. Maybe it would be ok.
* * *
At the track over the weekend, Lucas barely acknowledged her. He moved through the paddock with purpose—short nods to engineers, quick words with Jax—but his gaze slid past Mia every time. Each missed glance landed like a small, deliberate exclusion. She stood at the garage edge during practice, arms folded, telling herself it was nothing personal.He’s focused. That’s all. But the doubt crept in anyway:Or maybe I pushed too hard after the radio? Maybe I’m the reason he’s shut me out?The thought carried the old, familiar weight from Oxford—the sense that she’d misread a situation, trusted too soon, and paid for it.
When he climbed into the car on Sunday, he didn’t glance her way. Mia stayed at the pit wall, headset on, listening to the comms while the grid lights counted down. The start was poor—bogged down immediately—and the unease settled deeper.If I’d anticipated his mood better, if I’d found the right words Thursday night instead of walking away angry, maybe he’d be sharper today.The strategy calls came too late; traffic boxed him in. Lap after lap the screens showed him losing ground. By the flag he was near the back—points gone. Mia pulled off the headset amid the garage’s subdued murmurs, the failure sitting quiet but heavy in her chest.
Later she retreated to the half-dimmed hospitality corner she’d claimed for notes. The space was quiet now, only the low hum of the fridge and the distant clatter of teardown outside. She sat over her tablet, scrolling through race data and early media mentions, the words blurring slightly.They’ll tie this to the radio clip. And that circles back to me—not catching it fast enough, not keeping him steady. The exhaustion pressed in,mingling with the old question: was she truly capable of reading situations. She rubbed her temples, trying to push the thought away. It never quite left.
Dana appeared then, slipping in with a bottle of water, her steady presence a brief anchor. “He’s not great at failing,” she said quietly, passing it over.
Mia let out a tired laugh that fell flat. “Neither am I.” The admission carried more weight than she meant, echoing the vulnerabilities she usually kept locked down.
Dana glanced at her, assessing, then gave a small nod. “Looks like you could use a proper drink. Let’s commiserate later—away from all this.” She squeezed Mia’s shoulder once—brief, steady—then turned and walked off toward the corridor, her footsteps fading into the general hum of the paddock winding down.
Mia sat alone again, the bottle cool against her palm.She sees it. Everyone probably does. I’m supposed to be the one who steadies things, and I’m barely holding myself together.
Then Lucas appeared in the doorway. Post-race, still raw: sweat darkening the fireproof collar beneath his unzipped suit, hair damp and mussed from the helmet. His shoulders were set tight, every line of him coiled with frustration and fading adrenaline. He looked worn in a way the cameras never caught, and something in Mia tightened at the sight.
“Happy?” he asked, voice low and rough, scraped raw from shouting over the engine.
