Page 51 of Break My Heart

He taps his headset. “You’ve got a direct line to me and Leo.”

As if saying his name conjured him, I look past Dario, and there he is. Already in partial gear, Leo’s got his balaclava around his neck and his suit unzipped at the collar. He’s checking in with one of the mechanics, but I can tell he’s distracted. Like his body is here and his mind is somewhere else entirely.

That’s not new since we talked a few nights ago. What’s different is how aware I am of it. I will him to focus, as I force my own attention back to where it belongs. “Run me through the entire mapping again.”

Mike pulls the data up. “Turn One, we’re looking at a smoother load transfer. The correction curve is dampened by⁠—‍”

I hear Mike’s voice take me through every turn, every angle Leo will make. Still, even as I’m listening to how he’ll be optimized coming out of Turn Eight, I say a quick prayer it will work. Because it has to.

The pit hums with controlled urgency as race time closes in.

Tires are stacked, prepped, and labeled. Engineers move with purpose, headsets on, voices low but constant. Every action is deliberate. Every second accounted for. It should feel chaotic, but it doesn’t. It feels structured and predictable, which is soothing.

I move around the car, checking sensor connections, verifying the telemetry inputs, and confirming every system is communicating with the garage. The diagnostics report exactly what they should. Everything aligns. Everything holds. And yet I don’t want to step away. It’s not my code calling to me, it’s him.

This time, I don’t fight the pull. Stepping around the front wing, I stop just short of where he’s standing. I call out, “Leo.”

He turns as if he’s been waiting for me to say his name. His eyes meet mine, and for a second, I forget the garage and the race. I momentarily get lost in his green eyes before I recall the entire reason I’m even standing here. Keeping my tone level, I ask, “How does it feel?”

“Different.”

“Good or unsettling?”

He considers that. “Both.”

“That’s expected.”

“You’ll want to anticipate the car through Turn Ten. Don’t.” I shift into what I know. What’s going to keep me sane while he’s driving.

His mouth curves slightly. “Still on that kick?”

“Yes, because I know you. You’re going to say something rude the first time about botching it. Then, you’ll be devastated later about not listening.”

“I don’t do that.”

“You did.”

His expression shifts, something heavier threading through it. He says quietly so no one else can hear, “I’m never going to do that again.”

I stop myself from engaging further because I don’t want to divert Leo’s attention. He needs absolute concentration for the whole three hundred kilometers. For two hours, Leo will need to drive flawlessly—every reaction deliberate to evoke consistency.

“Your inputs need to stay clean,” I say instead, tapping the side of the steering wheel. “If you start compensating mid-corner, you’ll break the feedback loop.”

He nods, but he’s still looking at me like there’s something else he wants to say. He blows out a breath before saying my name. “Christin.”

“No,” I cut in, softer this time but no less firm. “Focus on the race.”

“The race. Right.”

We stand next to each other longer than necessary. Close enough that I’m aware of the heat of his body over that of the desert. The way his hand shifts slightly like he’s resisting the instinct to reach for me. The memory of what that felt like when he didn’t resist that temptation.

I step back first because I have to. “You’ve got this.”

He offers me a crooked smile. “I hope so.”

Just then, Dario announces, “He’s ready for his helmet.”

The team moves in immediately. As they lower the helmet over his head, something in my chest tightens unexpectedly, recalling the times when I was a kid watching my father race. I remember standing near the pit, watching his team prep him. The ritual of it. The way everything narrows down to the inherent trust between driver and machine.