Too peaceful, maybe, considering everything we did on that impossibly small bed last night. But it’s not awkward. It’s grounded. Settled. An unspoken agreement to keep things undefined for as long as the road lets us.
He hums along—off-key, obviously—to whatever’s playing on the radio, and I let my eyes close for a second.
“You still with me?” he asks, his voice just above a whisper, not wanting to break whatever this is.
“Barely,” I grumble. “Don’t get used to it. I’m only this agreeable when I haven’t slept enough.”
He snorts, amused. I can feel it more than hear it.
For once, I don’t overthink what’s happening. I don’t poke at it or pick it apart. I just breathe and let the quiet settle around us, effortless and uncomplicated in a way nothing about yesterday—or last night—was.
And somehow, that’s what scares me most.
I try to tell myself it’s just the miles catching up with me, or the endless green of northern France under a misty sky. But that’s a lie, and I’ve lied to myself enough lately to recognize the shape of another one forming.
What scares me is how natural this feels, how right. Like we slipped into some version of ourselves that only exists in the in-between spaces—border crossings, borrowed rooms, long stretches of road with no one watching.
Because the second we roll into Silverstone, it all gets complicated again.
There will be Grady’s schedule, Hutch’s pit duties, the endless parade of team meetings, strategy sessions, cameras shoved in our faces, and the FIA breathing down our necks, waiting to see which one of us cracks first.
And whatever last night was—whatever this is—won’t fit neatly into any of that.
I glance over at him. He looks relaxed, sunlight cutting through the window and brushing over the stubble on his jaw. He shouldn’t look this good after driving across Europe in this tin-can van with seats designed by sadists. He shouldn’t make my stomach do somersaults just by existing in my peripheral vision.
I turn back to the window, the truth hitting me with the same force as an overtaking maneuver gone wrong. If being with him can feel this easy, walking away is going to be hell.
And in a few hours, that’s exactly what I’m supposed to do.
Hutch glances over. “You good?”
“Yeah.” It comes out too fast. Too practiced. “Just tired.”
He doesn’t call me on it, but he doesn’t buy it either. His mouth quivers, like he’s thinking about saying something else, something that would undo me. Instead, he flicks the turn signal, merges into the next lane, and lets the hum of the highway settle around us again.
Part of me wants to reach over and touch him. Just a brush of fingers. A thank-you. A reminder. Something to prove last night wasn’t a fluke or a fever dream brought on by stress and a shitty van.
But I keep my hands to myself.
Because I don’t know what happens once we hit the paddock.
Because I want him—God, I want him. And not just physically. I want inside jokes. I want mornings. I want history. And that could ruin everything.
The Channel Tunnel signs appear ahead, vivid against the muted sky. Hutch nods toward them.
“Almost there,” he says.
My throat works around the lump forming there. “Yeah.”
The highway curves toward the terminal, signage multiplying. Passenger Check-In, Customs, Boarding—all unmistakable, efficient reminders that the real world is coming for us whether we’re ready or not.
Hutch slows the van as we approach the booth. The wipers keep time—thwap, thwap, thwap—a merciless countdown.
I force myself to breathe normally.
“Documents?” he asks, already reaching down between the seats for the folder I stacked neatly last night. The one with all the car insurance, rental papers, and other nonsense no onereads but everyone should. The one I shouldn’t have had the bandwidth to care about after everything we did.
I hand it over, along with my passport. Our fingers skim. Too light to be an accident, not quite deliberate.
