“It’s okay,” she said, forcing the words past the ache. “I understand.”
“Mia — do you think—”
She cut him off gently. “Good luck tomorrow in the race. I know this season hasn’t been what you hoped for, but I can see things turning around. I can feel it.”
He studied her for a long moment — something raw flickering behind his eyes. She saw the question he didn’t ask: Are you happy? Are you really okay without me?
He nodded once, jaw tight. “Thanks.”
He turned for the door, then stopped, hand on the handle.
“Mia?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad you’re back.”
Her heart squeezed so hard she almost couldn’t breathe. She managed a small, steady smile. “Me too.”
The door closed with a soft click.
Mia stood motionless for several long seconds. The media centre felt suddenly too big, too quiet. She set the last cable down carefully, fingers still trembling. She switched off thelights one by one, each click loud in the empty space.
Outside, the night was warm and thick with the smell of cooling tarmac and distant engines. Floodlights turned the paddock into a glowing, surreal stage. She walked slowly toward the Ascari motorhome, passing shuttered garages and the occasional mechanic still working under a car.
She let herself feel it without rushing: the sharp sting of seeing him, the clumsy awkwardness of trying to talk like strangers when they weren’t.
She stopped under one of the big lights, tilted her head back to the clear desert sky. The stars were the same ones she’d looked at in Amberley.
She started walking again, slower, letting the warm air settle against her skin. The weight hadn’t vanished. It had simply changed shape — less brutal, more familiar, almost careful now in the way it rested against her ribs.
Tomorrow was more work. Whatever came next — on track or off — she would face it one steady breath at a time.
* * *
Lucas
He’d told himself he wouldn’t look for her.
All weekend he’d repeated it like a mantra:head down, focus on the car, let the rest go. The media centre wasn’t even on his normal route back, but the door was ajar, and there she was — back turned, coiling cable with that same precise focus she used when she was trying not to think too hard.
He stepped inside before he could talk himself out of it.
Now he was walking away, legs on autopilot down the pit lane, floodlights throwing long shadows. He made it halfway before his knees gave out. He stopped under a pylon, hands braced on his thighs, breathing hard like he’d just done twenty hot laps.
She was back.
And the conversation had been excruciating — all those stiltedpauses, the way they’d both tried to keep it light and failed, the way her voice had caught when she finally said she’d told her parents about Oxford. He’d wanted to reach for her so badly his hands had ached in his pockets.
He was proud of her. Furious at himself.
He straightened, dragged a hand over his face, and kept walking.
Tomorrow he’d climb into the car. He’d drive like hell. He’d try to salvage something from this season.
But tonight, under the lights, all he could think was:
She was back.
