“What are you doing out here?” Her voice came out softer than she meant, thick with concern.
“Wasn’t sure this was the right address at first,” he mumbled. “Didn’t want to wake you if it wasn’t. Sat down to think… must’ve dozed off.”
She slid an arm around his waist and helped him stand, guiding him inside on unsteady legs. The apartment felt suddenly smaller, cozier—bookshelves crammed with novels and old textbooks, the faint comforting smell of yesterday’s coffee lingering in the kitchenette. “You look awful. Sit. I’ll make breakfast.”
He collapsed onto the couch like his bones were lead. She moved around the tiny kitchen on autopilot: eggs cracking into the pan, toast popping, coffee brewing dark and strong enough to cut through fog. She set a simple, hearty plate in front of him and sat across the low table, watching him eat slowly, head bowed, fork pushing scrambled eggs in lazy circles.
“Rough night?” she asked gently.
He nodded. “After the party… Dad’s words hit harder than usual. Drank too much trying to numb it. Ended up wandering, thinking. Always the same script: ‘Should be champion by now.’ ‘No excuses.’ I turn to the bottle sometimes—drowns the noise for a bit. Stupid habit. Vicious cycle.”
She reached across and squeezed his hand, feeling the faint tremor in his fingers. “It’s not stupid. It’s coping. But you don’t have to do it alone. Your dad—he loves you, but he’s projecting his own regrets. You’re not him.”
He looked up, eyes haunted, shadows bruising the skin beneath them. “Feels like I am sometimes. The pressure… it’s been there since I was a kid. And now, with the wins coming, it’s worse. Like anything less than the title is failure.”
She leaned closer. “You’re not failing. You just won Silverstone. At home. That’s huge. And you’re third in the standings—that’s not pressure; that’s proof you belong at the top.”
A small, grateful smile tugged at his mouth—the first real one she’d seen since the podium. “You defended me last night. In front of him. No one’s ever done that before. Not like that.”
“Someone had to say it,” she replied softly. “You deserve to hear it.”
Quiet settled between them, comfortable now, the kind that didn’t need filling. He finished his coffee, shoulders loosening a fraction, looking steadier. “Tell me about your family. They sound… grounding. Supportive. No wonder you’re so put together.”
She hesitated, tracing the rim of her mug with her thumb. “They are. Mum’s the heart—always baking, always listening. Dad’s the quiet strength, fixing things around the farm, teaching me to drive on dirt roads. But… it’s not all perfect. I’ve kept things from them. Big things.”
He tilted his head, curious but gentle. “Like what?”
The words came in a ragged rush before she could second-guess them: Emma’s party, Henry spiking her drink, waking up bruised and violated, his sick lie that she’d seduced him. How everyone believed him. How she’d been left isolated, friendless, branded the liar. How she’d never told her parents thefull truth—couldn’t bear to see the worry carve itself into their faces.
Lucas’s expression changed in an instant—shock flashing, then fury rising beneath the surface, his fists clenching white-knuckled on his thighs. “Mia… fuck. That’s… I’m so sorry. He’s a monster. And they—Emma, the others—they failed you. Betrayed you.”
Tears welled hot and fast. She blinked them back, but they spilled anyway. He stood without hesitation, pulling her up into his arms—strong, enveloping, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other wrapped securely around her waist. She sank against his chest; the dam broke completely, quiet sobs shaking her frame. He held her tight, chin resting on her hair, rocking her gently as though he could absorb every tremor.
“You’re safe with me,” he whispered fiercely against her temple. “I swear. No one will ever hurt you like that again. Not while I’m around. You don’t have to carry it alone anymore.”
She clung to him, face buried in the soft fabric of his hoodie, breathing in clean sweat, faint cologne, safety. His hand moved in slow, steady circles on her back until the sobs eased into shaky breaths.
When she finally pulled back just enough to look up, eyes red but clearer, she whispered, “Thank you. For listening. For… not looking at me differently.”
His thumbs brushed the damp tracks on her cheeks. “How could I? You’re still you. Stronger than anyone I know.”
Something shifted in the small space between them—gratitude, relief, and then something hotter, deeper. Her gaze dropped to his mouth, then lifted again. Slowly, deliberately, she rose on her toes and pressed her lips to his—soft at first, tentative, a thank-you that lingered.
He froze for half a heartbeat, then kissed her back—gentle, careful, letting her set the pace. His hands stayed at her waist, thumbs stroking small circles over her ribs, grounding her.
She deepened the kiss, parting her lips, her tongue brushing his in a slow, seeking glide. A soft sound slipped from her throat; his fingers tightened instinctively. The kiss turned hungry—months of restraint unravelling in quiet gasps and the slick press of mouths. She pressed closer, hands roaming up his chest to curl into his hoodie, tugging him flush against her.
They broke apart, breathing hard. He rested his forehead against hers, eyes searching hers.
“Mia…” His voice was rough, strained. “Are you sure? We don’t have to—”
“I’m sure,” she whispered, cutting him off with another kiss—firmer this time. “I want this. I want you. Right now.”
He exhaled shakily, hands sliding to her hips. “Okay. But if you need to stop—any second—just say it. Promise me.”
“I promise.” She kissed him again, slower, deeper, then tugged lightly at his hoodie. “Bedroom.”
They stumbled down the short hall, shedding layers as they went—his hoodie, her tank top, his jeans, her sleep shorts—clothes falling in a careless trail. By the time they reached the bed, they were bare, skin flushed and fever-hot.
