Chapter 26
HEAVY STEERING: INCREASED RESISTANCE IN WHEEL
Location: Monaco and Barcelona
The problem with Monaco isn’t what happens in the city; it’s the feelings that linger afterward. Noise fades, yachts slip out of the harbor, and the headlines move on. Moments you don’t plan for linger. Leo’s kiss does. So does the quiet, steady way he’s been showing me he’s changed.
The fact that I didn’t walk away sticks most of all.
The Apex Orion team calls the time off before Barcelona a recalibration. Officially, we’re using the gap days to refine the steering system under reevaluated conditions before the next race. In truth, we’re all looking forward to the downtime—a breathable moment carved out between bouts of chaos.
When I enter the training facility garage, I realize it’s designed for precision. The track boasts smooth asphalt, tight corners, and long straights built to isolate problems rather than mask them.
“Run it again,” I order, eyes tracking the telemetry as it streams across my tablet.
Leo pulls the car out, engine slicing cleanly through the quiet.
I watch every input as he approaches the first corner. Steering angle. Throttle response. Brake pressure. I notice he’s cleaner than when we started, but he’s still anticipating the next movement.
“Stop predicting,” I murmur under my breath.
On the next pass, he adjusts. It’s subtle. Less pre-load before entry. Instead, he’s reacting to what’s actually happening before him. When he pulls back in, I’m already moving in his direction.
“You’re still assuming the car won’t respond,” I say after he removes his helmet.
“I’m compensating.”
“You’re overcompensating when you don’t need to.” My words have a dual meaning.
Leo studies me, sweat dampening the edges of his hair. “What if I feel like I do?”
“You don’t have to if you give it attention and trust.”
He stares at me for a moment before nodding. Something about the ease of us settles under my skin in a way that has nothing to do with the work.
By the fourth run, the data smooths into something intentional. The corrections are minimal. Leo’s hesitation is gone. I immediately hold out my tablet and tell him, “Better,” once he clears the car.
He doesn’t look at the screen. He looks at me and asks without the ambiguity we’ve both been hiding behind, “You’re not just talking about the system.”
I should deflect the answer, but I can’t because I see him putting in the effort to make things right between us. “No.”
He pulls off his gloves slowly, like he’s giving the moment space instead of trying to control it.
“You decided.” His tone is cautiously optimistic.
“Yes.”
His helmet clears his head. Then he murmurs, “You’re committing to this—to working on us.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m tired of pretending there was a version of us that didn’t matter.”
His mouth curves in that glorious smile I know I’ve forever locked into my memory banks.
We fall into a rhythm over the next few days that’s reminiscent of our previous time together. He brings me coffee. I offer more smiles and am less abrasive. But it’s the elimination of space between us that changes things.
“You said you hate mornings,” I say the next day, glancing up from the data.
He’s leaning against the workbench, watching me instead of the screen. A smirk curves his lips. “Why do I feel like I’m about to regret sharing that with you?”
“It explains your lap times before noon.” I tap the top of the tablet.
He laughs. “You’ve been tracking that?”
“I track everything.”
The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s warm, filled with possibilities.
“You now see how mornings impact me. How does doing this”—he gestures around—“impact you?”
I hesitate before sharing a long-held memory. “When I was a teenager, my mom would always sit with me when I worked. Not because she understood advanced mathematics or coding, but because she wanted to be close to me.”
He doesn’t interrupt, so I go on. “She believed in supporting me, unequivocally. There was this one time when I was doing a homework assignment at the dinner table when Dad was away.”
“Okay, imagine your recipe cards,” I say, sliding closer to her with my laptop between us. “Each one has instructions, right? Step by step.”
“You mean the ones you reorganized by color and category when you were ten?”
“They were inefficient,” I reply automatically. Then, softer, “But yeah. Those.”
“Go on, genius,” she teases me affectionately.
“So, I’m writing instructions but for a computer.” I angle the screen toward her. “The difference is it only does exactly what I tell it. It can’t decide we need more salt.”
“You don’t need more salt,” my mother says automatically.
I giggle when I explain. “Exactly. It can only go off what I write.”
She hums. “That sounds like it could go wrong very quickly.”
“It does if you’re not precise.” I tap my keyboard. “This line here? It’s a loop. Think of it like stirring soup. You keep stirring until it’s ready.”
“How does the computer know when it’s ready?”
“It doesn’t.” I glance up at her. “I have to define that. Like…‘stop when the temperature hits this’ or ‘when it reaches this consistency.’ Otherwise, it just keeps going.”
Her brows lift. “Forever?”
“Yeah. Or until it breaks something, whichever comes first.”
She studies me for a second longer than necessary, something soft settling in her expression. “So you’re setting it free to make decisions.”
“No,” I correct, shaking my head. “I’m teaching it to follow rules.”
“And doing this makes you happy?”
I pause, fingers stilling on the keyboard. She doesn’t rush me. She never does. “It’s easier than other things in my life.”
“Like what? People?” Her hand comes up, brushing a piece of hair behind my ear in her familiar way.
I glance back at the screen, the cursor blinking like it’s waiting for an answer I don’t have. “People aren’t like this.”
“No,” she agrees gently. “They’re not. They’re infinitely more complex.”
After shaking myself out of my reverie, my throat feels tight. Leo’s hand has moved from bracing behind me while he looked at the data to rubbing up and down my back in comfort. I look at Leo. “That’s the part no one prepares you for when you’ve been doing what I do as long as I have.”
“What’s that?”
“That you can still understand something completely and still be powerless.”
“I appreciate that feeling far too well.”
Knowing what I do now about his childhood, I know he’s not just offering platitudes.
We shift gears and wrap up our testing. After, we move out toward the edge of the track with the late afternoon sun stretching long shadows across the asphalt. The air is quieter here, stripped down to what matters.
Leo sits beside me on the low barrier, elbows resting on his knees. He blurts out, “I’m not looking forward to Silverstone.”
“The British Grand Prix?”
He nods once. Then I put it together. “Home race nerves?”
“Not really.”
Recalling what he told me about his family, I know this is another time when he feels he’s not good enough. “Going back to Great Britain must be difficult. Do you think there’s a possibility you’ll see them?”
“I’m not worried about that.”
“You’re not?”
“They don’t come. Ever,” he continues. My brows skyrocket but before I can ask more questions, he mutters, “They’re so different from your family. No one tries to understand.”
My heart aches at what I realize was systematic emotional abuse of the man next to me. I reach for his hand and hold it, letting the silence pulse between us. “Do you think they follow you?”
“I’m certain,” he adds. “The results, the coverage—it’s too extensive.”
“But they won’t reach out to you?”
“No. I exist and I guess that’s been bad enough for them.”
“What about you? What’s enough for you?”
He exhales slowly. “For a long time? Escape.”
“And now?”
His gaze shifts to me. “The family I realize I had and never put my faith in.”
I nod slowly. Without prompting, he continues, “Dario. He’s…
family. The only one I’ve recognized in a long time.
He never asked me to be anything, which made it easier not to let anyone else in.
Now I’m realizing that shutting people out doesn’t actually protect anything.
Kind of like your mother questioned you about your choice of code over people. ”
His words hit me quietly because they make sense. I recall the rest of my conversation with my mother, that long ago school day. “Letting people in means risking something you can’t control.”
“I know. I was never taught how to make space for vulnerability.”
I squeeze his fingers tighter and appreciate this moment for what it is—honesty—even as we watch other cars on the track. When he stands to head back, he squeezes my fingers.
I return the gesture, not pulling away.
And neither does he.