“I’ve seen a lot of drivers come through here, Lucas. Some burn bright and disappear. Some learn to last. You’re starting to last. But this isn’t personal—it’s a significant line in a department we’re trying to shrink by twenty percent. Claire’s taking the load. The socials team can handle the rest.”
“Then find the money somewhere else. Or explain to the board why their improving second driver suddenly goes back to monosyllabic answers and sponsor walk-outs. Your call.”
Marcus held his gaze for another beat. Then he gave a single, curt nod.
“We’ll review the restructure. No promises. But I’ll look at the line items again.”
The news came via email that afternoon: Mia’s contract renewed. The redundancy list quietly adjusted—someone from the general media support pool instead. No mention of the conversation. No apology. Just a brief line about “reprioritisation of resources in line with performance objectives.”
* * *
Mia
The rest of the season blurred: Singapore’s heat, Austin’s chaos, Mexico’s altitude, Brazil’s rain, Vegas’s neon glare, Abu Dhabi’s finale. Lucas looked to finish the year P12 in the drivers’ standings. Not championship material, but respectable. Enough to secure the seat. Enough for the team to stop whispering about Étienne Laurent.
Abu Dhabi was the last race. He finished P8—solid, unspectacular, perfect bookend to the year. The garage erupted in the usual end-of-season chaos: hugs, champagne, music blaring.Mia stayed on the periphery, coordinating wrap-up interviews, making sure no one said anything stupid.
Later, after the final wrap and the team photos, the paddock emptied. Most people were already at the after-party, laughter and music drifting from somewhere distant. Mia was alone in the quiet of the media centre, lights low, packing files into her bag with careful, mechanical movements. The season was over. The job was safe. Everything should have felt lighter. It didn’t.
She heard footsteps in the corridor—slow, deliberate—then Lucas appeared in the doorway. He paused, eyes sweeping the dim room.
“Left my radio headset,” he said, voice low, almost rough from the day. “During the wrap-up. Should be by the table.”
She nodded once, not trusting her own voice yet. “Yeah. Over there.”
He stepped inside and let the door ease shut behind him. The click echoed. He crossed the room without looking away from her for long—each step measured, like he was giving her time to stop him. She didn’t.
When he reached the chair, he leaned past her to grab the headset. His arm brushed hers—barely, but enough. The air between them thickened instantly, warm and electric. He straightened slowly, headset dangling from his fingers, but he didn’t step back. They were close now. Too close. She could see the faint sheen of sweat still at his temples, the way his chest rose and fell a fraction faster than normal.
Mia’s throat tightened. She forced the words out before they could retreat again. “You didn’t have to go to Marcus.” Her voice came quieter than she intended, barely above a whisper. “You didn’t owe me anything.”
He went still. His gaze dropped to her mouth for half a second, then lifted again—dark, searching.
She swallowed. “I never really said it. So… thanks. For fighting for my spot. For making sure I didn’t lose my chance.”
The silence stretched, taut. His jaw flexed once. When he spoke, his voice was low, edged. “Wasn’t about to watch them cut the only person who’s kept me looking half human.”
A small, unsteady breath escaped her—half laugh, half something else. Without letting herself overthink it, she closed the gap and slid her arms around him. It was meant to be quick, professional. But the second her hands met at his back, he exhaled sharply against her hair, and his free arm came around her waist—harder than expected, fingers splaying across the small of her back like he’d been waiting months for permission.
They stayed like that. Longer than they should. His heartbeat thudded against her collarbone, fast and uneven. Hers answered it. The room felt smaller, hotter, the faint hum of the air-conditioning the only sound besides their breathing. She felt the tension coil in his shoulders, the way he held himself rigid, like he was fighting not to tighten his grip further.
When she finally started to ease back—just an inch—his hand didn’t release right away. It slid up her spine, slow, deliberate, stopping at the nape of her neck. Their faces were close enough that she felt the heat of his exhale on her lips.
His eyes locked on hers.
“Mia,” he said—barely a word, more a warning to himself.
She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Just looked back at him, pulse roaring in her ears.
He closed the distance.
The kiss wasn’t tentative. It was hungry—months of restraint cracking open in one rough slide of his mouth over hers. His hand curled gently in her hair, tilting her head as he deepened it, tongue brushing hers with a low, frustrated sound from his throat. She met him with the same edge, fingers digging into his shoulders, pulling him in until there was no space left. Her back hit the table edge; he pressed forward, hips pinning hers,the hard line of him making her gasp into his mouth.
They broke apart only when air became necessary—chests heaving, foreheads pressed together, his thumb still tracing the line of her jaw like he couldn’t stop touching her.
“We can’t,” she whispered, voice wrecked.
Lucas let out a rough breath, eyes still fixed on her swollen mouth. “I know.”
