He felt the weight of that. “I get it. Or… I’m trying to. I didn’t mean to add to it.”
“You didn’t know.” Her voice softened, just a fraction. “But yeah. It’s been hard to breathe sometimes. I’m not trying to punish you. I just… can’t do complicated right now. Not when everything else feels like it’s slipping.”
He nodded slowly, throat tight. “I don’t want to make it harder. I just… miss talking to you. Even if it’s just work stuff. Even if it’s just friends.”
Mia’s eyes met his—searching, tired, but not cold. “Friends is… possible. Maybe. But I need time. And I need to know you won’t push. Because if this turns into another thing I can’t control—” She stopped, swallowed. “I can’t do that again.”
“I won’t push,” he said quietly. “I promise. No pressure. Just… here.”
She looked back at the water for a long moment. Then she nodded, small but real. “Okay.”
They stood there in silence as the wind picked up, cool and salty. No hug. No grand reconciliation. Just two people breathing the same air, a little closer than they’d been in weeks, but still careful.
He didn’t ask for more.
She didn’t offer it.
But when they turned back toward the hotel, she didn’t walk away first. She waited for him to fall into step beside her.
It wasn’t everything.
But it was something.
* * *
Mia
The season hurtled toward its end, each race weekend a high-wire act Mia had strung taut for herself—balancing professionalism, distance, and the quiet pull she still felt toward him.
Austin came first: the Circuit of the Americas alive with Texas heat and partisan cheers. Lucas duelled Jax wheel-to-wheel through long stints, tyres howling in protest, but a late safety car reshuffled everything. He salvaged P8—decent points, nothing flashy. Mexico followed under thin, high-altitude air; the crowd’s roar shook the stadium section as he fought to P3, his third podium of the year. Champagne sprayed in golden arcs on the steps, the podium lights catching every drop. Then Brazil—Interlagos slick with rain, visibility near zero, chaos at every apex. Lucas drove with surgical patience, managing degrading tyres like they were made of glass. P5, another masterclass. The points accumulated steadily, quietly relentless. Sixth in the drivers’ championship, sealed with two races still to run.
Mia watched from the edges—tablet in hand, feeding crisp lines to the media pen, shaping captions that turned hisconsistency into something almost poetic. She told herself the work was enough: the narrative clean, positive, deserved. But every time he emerged from the car—helmet off, sweat-dark hair plastered to his forehead, that quick scan of the garage— the same dull ache bloomed beneath her ribs. Their eyes would meet across the pit wall for a heartbeat, searching, before she looked away.
Off the track, the friendship thawed slowly, tentative as spring after a long freeze.
It started small: shared playlists on red-eye flights, songs pulled from old debriefs or sponsor dinners they’d both quietly liked. They traded notes on coffee in every city—Rome’s perfect espresso, Singapore’s strong kopi, Mexico’s spiced café de olla steaming in clay mugs. In Vegas, after a floodlit night race (P6, threading through wreckage from a late multi-car shunt), they escaped the paddock and wandered the Strip together. Neon bled across everything—cascading lights, laughter spilling from casinos, the relentless chime of slots—but their talk cut through the noise.
“Why comms?” he asked, sidestepping a knot of tourists posing with a half-scale Eiffel Tower.
Mia hesitated, the question landing softer than expected. “Control, mostly. Getting to shape the story before it gets twisted.”
He nodded, understanding flickering behind his eyes. “You’ve pulled me out of the fire more times than I can count.”
A small smile tugged at her mouth, not quite reaching her eyes. “Your turn. Why racing? Past the family legacy.”
“Escape,” he said, quieter amid the din. “The speed drowns out everything else. Quiets the head.”
They didn’t dig deeper. The professional line still held—Mia guarded against paddock whispers, against complicating her job, against letting anyone close after the mess of Monaco. But the silence between them no longer felt like exile. It felt deliberate. Safe. Considered.
Abu Dhabi arrived, the Yas Marina paddock thick with echoes of last year’s stolen kiss in every shadowed corner. Lucasqualified P2 and brought it home in P3, locking sixth overall. The team marked the occasion quietly in hospitality—subdued toasts, weary smiles, no extravagant blowout. He found her near the back wall, offering a casual fist bump like it was routine.
“Congrats,” she said, meaning every word. “You really earned it.”
“Thanks to you.” His easy grin softened into something more genuine. “Hey… off-season’s almost here. Christmas break.”
She glanced up. “Yeah. Heading home to New Zealand this time.”
A small, self-conscious smile. “Two trips back in six months probably sounds excessive, but I’ve been pretty rubbish about seeing Mum and Dad. Got some savings now, so… making up for it.”
