I love you.
He’d said it—finally, desperately—and she hadn’t said it back.
The pain hit in waves—sharp, disorienting. He’d thought the summer in France had built something unbreakable. He’d thought the way she looked at him, the way she whispered his name in the dark, the way she fit against him like she’d always belonged there… he’d thought it meant the same to her. But now the doubt crept in.
Had she ever felt it the way he did?
Or had she been trying—trying so hard to make it work, to keep the secret, to protect them both—until the weight of it became too much? Until the scandal, the probation, the headlines forced her to see that loving him meant losing pieces of herself she couldn’t afford to lose again?
He replayed her words in his head:We tried. We really tried. But maybe it’s best to stop now… before we can’t.
The “maybe” felt like a kindness she was offering him—a gentle way to let him down without saying the truth out loud: that she didn’t love him the same way. That the feelings weren’t equal. That while he’d been falling—hard, completely, irrevocably—she’d been holding herself back, protecting the parts of her that Oxford had already broken once.
His chest ached—deep, hollow, the kind of pain no podium could ever fix. He’d lost the championship. He’d lost his focus. And now he’d lost her.
The season was over.
So was everything else.
SEASON IV
???
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Mia
The flight from Abu Dhabi to Christchurch felt endless—twenty-four hours of airports, layovers, recycled air, and the low, relentless hum of engines that matched the constant throb in her chest. She barely slept, just stared out at the black expanse of ocean or the dim cabin lights, replaying the moment she’d walked away from Lucas under the Yas Marina floodlights. His voice—“I love you”—echoed in her head like a song she couldn’t turn off. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his face crumple, the way his hand had hovered, not quite reaching her.
She landed just after dawn on an early December morning, summer already warming the Canterbury plains. The air hit her like a memory when she stepped outside the terminal—dry grass, distant sea salt, the faint green smell of paddocks after rain. It was home, and it hurt.
Her dad was waiting in the old farm ute, engine idling, same faded cap he’d worn since she was a child. He didn’t hug her right away—just took her suitcase without a word, opened the passenger door, and said, “Good to have you home, love.”
The drive north was quiet. Radio on low—some local station playing old Crowded House—she stared out at the familiar hills, the long straight roads, the sheep dotted like clouds on the slopes. Nothing had changed. Everything had. The ute smelled of diesel and old leather and the faint trace of her dad’s aftershave. She pressed her forehead to the cool window,letting the vibration rattle through her skull.
When they pulled up to the gate, her mother was already there—arms open before Mia even got out. The hug was fierce, wordless, the kind that squeezed the air out of her lungs and held the pieces together at the same time. No questions. Just the smell of lavender soap and home, and the soft press of her mum’s cheek against her hair.
They didn’t ask why she’d come back so suddenly, or why her eyes were red-rimmed, or why she flinched when her phone buzzed in her pocket. They simply folded her back into the house: her old bedroom still there, bed made with the faded floral quilt she’d had since she was twelve, window cracked to let in the morning breeze. Fresh towels folded on the chair. A small vase of roses from the garden on the dresser—pink and white, still dewy. Someone had lit a candle on the windowsill—vanilla, soft and warm.
Mia stood in the doorway for a long time, suitcase at her feet, staring at the room like it belonged to someone else. The posters she’d put up as a teenager—postcards of landmarks, a faded map of the world—were still there. The bookshelf held the same dog-eared novels, the same collection of shells she’d gathered on family beach trips. It was all so unchanged, so ordinary, that the contrast made her chest ache.
She dropped the suitcase and sat on the edge of the bed. The mattress dipped under her weight, familiar and forgiving. She pressed her palms to her eyes until spots danced behind her lids.
Downstairs, she heard the kettle go on, the soft clink of mugs, her parents’ low voices—not prying, just existing. She stayed there until the sun climbed higher, until the house smells—coffee, toast, washing on the line—pulled her back downstairs.
Her mum was at the stove, scrambling eggs the way she always had—slow, gentle, with a knob of butter and a pinch of salt. Her dad was at the table with the paper, pretending to read it.
Mia slid into her old chair. No one spoke for a minute. Then her mum set a plate in front of her—eggs, toast, a sliced tomato from the garden. Simple. Warm.
“Eat,” her mum said quietly.
Mia picked up the fork. The first bite tasted like childhood, like safety. She ate slowly, tears slipping down her cheeks and onto the plate. Neither parent commented. Her dad just reached over and squeezed her wrist once—brief, steady—then went back to his paper.
She cried through breakfast. They let her.
When the plate was empty, her mum cleared it without a word and refilled her tea. Mia stared at the steam rising from the mug, the way it curled and disappeared.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered.
