Lucas caught the shift—the way her shoulders tensed, the clipped brevity. He studied her profile for a second, then chose not to push.
“Fair enough,” he said quietly, offering a half-smile to ease the moment. “Anyway—back to the car. Want to see the sector-two comparison? It’s where we really gained time.”
Mia nodded, grateful for the pivot. “Show me.”
They leaned in again, shoulders close but not quite touching now, the telemetry graphs pulling them back into the shared language of speed and data. But the air still carried the faint echo of what hadn’t been said.
* * *
Lucas
The engineering bay felt smaller than it should have—the low hum of the fans, the distant clatter of tools from the garage, the way the dim light caught the faint sheen across her collarbones after a long morning in the paddock sun. Just a soft, warm glisten on her skin, the kind that made her look alive in a quiet, effortless way.
Lucas was suddenly aware of every small thing about her: the way she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear with the tip of her middle finger, the slight crease between her brows when she concentrated on the screen, the way her lips parted just a fraction when something on the graph surprised her. And the scent—soft rose with a trace of warm jasmine and honey that drifted off her every time she leaned closer. It wasn’t overpowering; it was subtle, intimate, the kind of smell that caught in the back of his throat and made him want to inhale deeper without making it obvious.
It wasn’t the frantic, desperate pull he’d felt last season. This was quieter. Steadier. The easy rhythm of their conversation today had cracked something open: no defensiveness, no interruptions, just the two of them talking cars like it was the most natural thing in the world. And fuck, he liked it. Liked how she asked real questions, how her eyes lit up when the numbers made sense, how she didn’t treat the data like boring admin but like a story she actually wanted to understand.
He watched her trace one of the throttle lines on the monitor with her fingertip—slow, deliberate—and felt the familiar heat coil low in his gut. Not urgent. Not frantic. Just… there. Persistent. The same low throb he got every time she was close enough for him to catch that sweet, warm scent again, or see the way her pulse ticked a little faster at the base of her throat when she laughed at one of his dumb recoveries.
She made him want to stay in the conversation longer. Want to drag it out. Want to find excuses to keep her in the engineering bay instead of letting her slip back to the media pen.
He cleared his throat, trying to focus on the screen instead of the way her sleeve had ridden up just enough to show the thin silver bracelet on her wrist—the one she always wore, simple and understated, the kind of thing he’d noticed months ago and never mentioned.
“You know,” he said softly, voice rougher than he intended, “you’re the only person who ever asks to see this stuff. Most people just want the highlight reel. You want the why behind it.”
Mia glanced up at him, surprised but not entirely displeased. “Because the why is the interesting part. Anyone can say ‘I went fast.’ You actually feel the car. That’s what makes the stories worth telling.”
He gave a small, crooked smile. “You make it sound poetic.”
“Maybe it is, a little.” She shrugged, the movement small and self-conscious. “Or maybe I’m just trying to justify spending half my life turning lap times into Instagram captions.”
Lucas laughed under his breath—quiet, genuine. “Well, you’re bloody good at it. Better than good.”
Their eyes met again, longer this time. Not charged like before, but warmer, steadier. The kind of look that acknowledged the path they were both still navigating without needing to name it.
Then his phone rang—Sienna’s custom ringtone, bright and cheerful, slicing through the moment like a pit-lane limiter.
Lucas exhaled, stepping back to answer. “Hey, babe. Yeah, testing’s going well. Car’s feeling good. Miss you too.”
He kept his voice light, polite, distracted. Mia busied herself with her notes, turning to the monitor, pretending to study the data. But he saw the way her shoulders lifted slightly, the way she kept her face angled away.
When he hung up, the echo of Sienna’s cheer lingered like exhaust in the air.
“Sorry,” he said, pocketing the phone. Voice quieter now.
“No worries.” Mia’s tone was steady, practiced. “She’s sweet. Saw her posts—looks fun.”
He winced almost imperceptibly. “Yeah. She is.”
They wrapped up quickly after that. Mia headed back to the media pen for interviews; Lucas disappeared into the garage for debrief.
The space between them felt wider the moment they turned away.
* * *
Mia
That evening, back at the team hotel on the outskirts of Barcelona, Mia met Dana for the promised girls’ night. They’d claimed a suite on the upper floor—room service wine, a rom-com flickering on the TV, the balcony doors cracked open to let in the sharp February air that carried a faint bite of winter chill and distant sea salt.
