Lucas (1:47 AM):Can’t sleep.
No reply.
He didn’t expect one.
* * *
Mia
More testing followed—sharper sun, tighter corners, the same relentless data grind. Mia sat on the edge of her hotel bed, still in yesterday’s team hoodie, legs tucked under her, phone balanced on her knee. The screen glowed with his last message from Bahrain:And yet you’re still typing.
She’d stared at it for twenty minutes, thumb hovering, then locked the screen and tried to work. Tried to sleep. Tried to pretend the quiet wasn’t louder than the circuit noise.
Now, at 7:42 a.m., she typed before she could talk herself out of it.
Mia (7:42 AM):Couldn’t sleep?
Lucas (7:44 AM):Guilty. Blame the jet lag. Or the mental replay of that pool day in France. You in that red bikini was criminal.
Her stomach flipped—warm, traitorous. She pressed her thighs together, remembering the way his eyes had darkened when she’d climbed out of the water, the way his hand had flexed on the pool edge like he was holding himself back.
Mia (7:47 AM):We agreed. Friends.
Lucas (7:49 AM):Friends are allowed to have excellent memories.
She laughed despite herself—soft, surprised. He was impossible. And she was still typing.
Mia (7:52 AM):Dangerous territory, Moreau.
Lucas (7:54 AM):I race in dangerous territory for a living. Suits me.
She stared at the words until they blurred. Her thumb hovered again. Then she locked the phone, stood, and crossed tothe window. The city stretched out below—shiny, indifferent, moving on without her.
She didn’t reply again that day.
But the messages kept coming—small, careful, never crossing the line but always toeing it. A photo of his view from the hotel balcony in Melbourne:Wish you could see this sunrise.Looks better with company. A quick clip of Jax doing a terrible impression of him in the media pen:He’s stealing my personality now too.
She answered when she could—short, light, never too much. But every reply felt like giving ground. The teasing had become a game—sharp, addictive, and impossible to quit.
* * *
Suzuka arrived—cherry blossoms, technical corners, high stakes. Lucas took pole, dominated in mixed conditions, and claimed his maiden win. The parc fermé was chaos: screams, champagne, Jax slapping him on the back. Mia watched from the monitors in Jax’s garage, pride and ache twisting together in her chest.
An hour later, as the media frenzy died down:
Lucas:First win. Feels unreal.
Mia:You earned it. Every lap.
Lucas:Want to celebrate? Pizza. Your room. No cameras, no team. Just us. Friends catching up.
Mia:…
Lucas:I won’t push. Promise.
She stared at the message for a long minute, heart already climbing into her throat.
Mia:1428. Thirty minutes. Pizza only.
