The distance was deliberate. Necessary. He hated it anyway.
Back in the hotel, the room was too quiet after the circuit noise. Air-con hummed. He showered until the water ran cold, trying to rinse off the day, the frustration, the low ache that had settled under his ribs since France. Naked, except for the towel low on his hips, he dropped onto the bed and picked up his phone.
The chat with her was still open from right after they’d left the villa. That last morning on the terrace, over coffee, they’d quietly agreed: friends. Colleagues. No more blurring lines. Toprove they could actually do it, he’d sent a quick check-in that afternoon once his flight was boarding—nothing heavy, just the kind of casual message they’d always sent.
Lucas (day of departure, 4:12 PM):Wheels up soon. You make it home okay? Jax already blowing up the group chat about his “genius” debrief notes.
She’d replied a couple hours later.
Mia (evening same day, 8:47 PM):Home and unpacked. Tell Jax his notes are still mostly memes. Safe flight, Moreau. See you in Bahrain.
He hadn’t pushed for more. Neither had she. The thread had gone quiet since—dormant, professional, exactly as agreed.
He stared at the screen, thumb hovering. The cursor blinked.
He typed anyway.
Lucas (9:14 PM):Testing done. Car feels sharper than last year. Jax was loud in the pen today—stealing my material again.
The three dots appeared almost immediately. Then stopped. Then appeared again.
Mia (9:17 PM):He’s stealing your podium potential too. You had some solid runs looked… dignified.
He huffed a laugh—short, surprised. Dignified. The word landed somewhere between tease and truth, and it made his chest loosen for the first time all day.
Lucas (9:19 PM):Dignified? Brutal. I was aiming for “quietly devastating.”
Mia (9:21 PM):Quietly devastating is still quiet. You looked more like you were napping out there.
Lucas (9:23 PM):Napping. Wow. That’s cold.
Mia (9:22 PM):Honest. Big difference.
Lucas (9:23 PM):Okay, fair. But if I’m lying awake at 2 a.m. staring at the hotel ceiling thinking about your honesty… that’s your fault.
The dots danced longer this time. He pictured her in her room—probably still in team kit, hair up, tablet glowing on the bedspread—chewing her lip the way she did when she was deciding how much to give.
Mia (9:25 PM):You’re ridiculous, Moreau.
Lucas (9:26 PM):And you’re still replying.
He left him on read.
He exhaled through his nose, tossed the phone onto the mattress, and stared at the ceiling. The ache was back—lower, insistent. He closed his eyes, tried to push it away. The car. Turn 8. Anything.
But his mind slid back to her: the quick smile she’d given Jax in the pen, the way her throat moved when she swallowed during that briefing, the memory of her in the red bikini in France—wet hair, droplets sliding down her collarbone.
His hand moved under the towel, wrapping around himself. He was already half-hard. He stroked once, slow, testing the memory: her moan against his mouth, the way she’d rocked into his hand, the broken sound of his name.
He groaned low, hips lifting slightly. Faster for a moment. Then slower.
It wasn’t working. The heat stayed shallow, mechanical. No matter how he moved, it didn’t reach the hollow ache underneath. It wasn’t her touch. It wasn’t her.
He stopped. Hand still wrapped around himself; he let go completely. The frustration settled heavier in his chest—sharper now, not dulled.
He lay there, skin cooling, heart still too loud, phone silent beside him.
He dragged the sheet over his hips and picked up the phoneagain.
