He knocked exactly thirty minutes later—hoodie up, cap low, pizza box balanced in one hand. She let him in, door clicking shut behind him with a soft finality that felt louder than it should have. The room smelled faintly of her citrus body wash until the warm scent of dough, cheese, and pepperoni floodedin with him, rich and immediate, grounding her just enough to breathe.
They sat on the end of the bed—cross-legged, box open between them like a flimsy barrier. Grease-stained napkins, half-eaten slices, easy banter at first.
“Pole to win,” she said, licking sauce from her thumb. “Textbook.”
“Felt like everything clicked,” he replied, eyes flicking to her mouth for a second too long before he looked away. “Like the car was reading my mind.”
She smiled, small and careful. “Or maybe you finally listened to the strategy calls.”
He laughed—low, genuine—but the sound died quicker than usual. “Maybe I just had good motivation.”
Silence settled. The pizza grew cold.
He set his slice down, wiping his hands on a napkin with deliberate slowness. “Mia.”
She met his gaze, pulse already climbing. “We said friends.”
“We did.” He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, voice quieter now. “But friends don’t spend half the weekend trying not to look at each other. Friends don’t feel like this.”
Her breath caught. “Like what?”
“Like every time you’re in the same room, the air gets thick. Like I can’t think straight when you’re close. Like I’ve been hard since the second you opened the door.” He exhaled through his nose, jaw set. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
She didn’t. Couldn’t. Her thighs pressed together under the pretence of shifting her weight, but the pressure only sharpened the ache already building low in her belly.
“You’re not wrong,” she whispered. The admission felt like peeling back skin—raw, exposed, terrifying in how true it was.
He nodded once, like he’d been waiting for permission to admit it. “So what do we do about it?”
Mia swallowed. “We could… ignore it. Pretend it’s not there.”
“We’ve been trying that for months.” His eyes held hers—dark, steady, burning. “Didn’t work.”
She looked down at the pizza box, fingers tracing the cardboard edge, trying to anchor herself. “If we do anything… it changes everything.”
“Yeah.” He leaned back a fraction, giving her space she suddenly didn’t want. “But doing nothing is killing me. You too?”
She nodded, small and honest. “Yeah.” The word cracked on the way out—quiet, but heavy with everything she hadn’t said for months: the nights she’d replayed France, the mornings she’d woken up aching, the way her chest tightened every time she saw him in the paddock and had to look away.
Another beat of silence. The room felt smaller, hotter, the air between them humming.
He cleared his throat. “We could keep it simple. No touching each other. Just… watch. Relieve the pressure. No lines crossed. No hands on skin. Just eyes.”
Mia’s breath hitched at the request—raw, direct, focused entirely on her pleasure. She searched his face—conflict, hunger, restraint all warring there. Her own body was already answering: heat pooling low, nipples tight against her shirt, thighs slick. The idea terrified her and thrilled her in equal measure. This wasn’t safe. This wasn’t friends.
But she was tired of pretending she didn’t want it.
“If we do this…” she started, voice shaky, “…it stays here. No one knows. No promises.”
“Deal.”
She exhaled shakily. “Okay.”
He moved first—slowly, deliberately—leaning back against the headboard, legs spread. She mirrored him, scooting up to lean against the pillows opposite, knees bent, feet flat on the bed.
“Shirt off,” he said quietly. “I want to see you.”
She peeled her tee over her head, leaving her in a soft bralette and sleep shorts. The cool air kissed her skin and made her shiver—not from cold. His eyes darkened, roaming her body, and she felt the weight of his gaze like a physical touch. It made her breasts feel heavier, nipples already straining against the thin fabric.
