Mia stood near the barriers, clipboard in hand, cheeks flushed from the heat and the adrenaline. Their gazes locked. For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to just them.
He started toward her, long strides eating the distance, arms already opening as if to pull her into a crushing hug—
Then a high-pitched squeal cut through the noise.
“Baby!”
Sienna burst from the side, all golden hair and designer dress, throwing herself into his arms. The cameras swivelled instantly. He caught her on reflex, laughing as she planted a kiss square on his mouth—deep, celebratory, perfectly timed for the lenses. The crowd cheered louder. Social media was already exploding.
When he looked back, Mia had turned away, busying herself with her clipboard.
* * *
The team party that night was loud—champagne flowing, music thumping through the venue overlooking the harbour, Jax holding court with his usual charm. He was everywhere: shaking hands, posing for photos, Sienna glued to Lucas’s side in a shimmering silver dress that caught every light. But his attention kept slipping.
Mia had worn a simple black dress—thin straps, fitted at the waist, the hem brushing mid-thigh. Nothing flashy, but it moved with her, hugging the curve of her hips when she laughed at something Jax said near the bar. Jax was in rare form, mid-story about a wild night in Melbourne last year, armslung casually around her shoulders as he delivered the punchline. She threw her head back, laughing freely—the sound bright and unguarded—and he felt it like a punch to the sternum.
His gaze found her again and again—across the crowd, over Sienna’s shoulder, mid-conversation with a sponsor. Each time their eyes met, the air tightened. His jaw clenched; his hand flexed at his side like he was physically restraining himself from crossing the room. Sienna was radiant, laughing brightly, posting stories, pulling him into selfies. He smiled for the camera, arm around her waist, but his eyes kept drifting back to Mia.
He watched as she excused herself from Jax’s group with a quick smile—something about needing a refill—and drifted toward the quieter edge of the bar. He excused himself from a sponsor mid-sentence, murmuring something about needing air, and closed the distance in slow, deliberate steps. He stopped just close enough that he could smell her—warm rose petals warmed by sun and a hint of jasmine, clean and soft, the same scent that had haunted him since the physio room in Barcelona.
“Congrats again,” she said softly, voice almost lost in the music. She lifted her sparkling water in a small toast. “P3 feels good, doesn’t it?”
“Feels unreal.” His gaze dropped to her mouth for half a second, then back up. “But you—you’re the one who got me through Imola. I keep thinking about what you said. ‘Show them who you are now.’ I did that today because of you.”
She forced a small smile, heat creeping up her neck—he could see the faint flush that made her skin glow under the party lights. “You did it because you’re good, Lucas. I just reminded you.”
He stepped half a step closer—too close for colleagues, not quite close enough for anything else. His voice dropped lower. “You do more than remind me. You make me want to be better. At everything.”
Her breath caught. The words hung between them, heavy and dangerous. He could see the tension in her jaw, the way her fingers twitched like she wanted to reach out. He felt it too—the pull, the ache, the months of restraint cracking under the weight of one look.
Dana, standing a few metres away with a drink in hand, caught the exchange. Her gaze flicked from Mia to him—quick, pointed, a single warning look that said everything:Be careful. This is dangerous.She didn’t say a word. Just held the look for a beat, then turned back to her conversation, giving them space but leaving no doubt she’d seen it all.
Before either of them could say more, a deep voice cut through the music.
“Lucas! There’s our podium man!”
Marcus Lang, the team principal, strode over with a wide grin, clapping him on the shoulder hard enough to jolt him. “First podium in too long—bloody brilliant drive today. Proud of you, son. The board wants a quick toast and photo. Come on, don’t keep them waiting.”
His jaw ticked. He forced a grin, nodding. “Be right there, Marcus.” But his eyes stayed on Mia for one last, lingering beat—hungry, conflicted, almost pained—before he let himself be pulled away into the crowd.
* * *
Mia
Mia exhaled slowly. She set her glass down, murmured a quick excuse to the nearest guest—“Just grabbing my coat”—and slipped through the side door, away from the thumping music and the crush of bodies, toward the quiet cloak room down the corridor.
Her heart was still hammering, loud enough that she couldfeel it in her throat. Every step felt unsteady. She recalled his voice low and rough, the way he’d saidYou make me want to be better. At everything.The words kept looping in her mind, dangerous and addictive, making her skin feel too tight, too hot.
She pushed into the cloak room, the door swinging shut behind her with a soft click that sounded too loud in the sudden silence. The space was dim, lit only by a single low bulb, rows of coats and jackets hanging like silent witnesses. She found her coat and laptop bag, started shrugging the jacket on with shaking hands—
The door opened behind her.
Lucas.
He closed it softly, the latch clicking like a gunshot in the quiet. Just him—in his black Armani suit, crisp white shirt open at the collar, eyes dark and intent, hair still a little mussed from the earlier chaos.
“Mia.”
