CHAPTER NINETEEN
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Lucas
Bahrain pre-season testing was the same furnace it always was—floodlights, dry heat pressing in, the smell of hot brakes and scorched rubber clinging to everything.
Three days of long runs, tyre compounds, aero tweaks, chasing tenths that wouldn’t show up in headlines.
Lucas climbed out of the car after the final afternoon stint, neck taped, shoulders burning from the G-forces and the simulator hours that had bled into real track time.
The garage was already half-empty, engineers packing laptops, mechanics wiping down the floor.
He peeled off the balaclava, sweat stinging his eyes, and scanned the paddock instinctively. Different side this year. Jax’s garage. Mia was over there— dark hair tucked behind one ear, nodding at something an engineer said. She didn’t look his way. Not once.
The distance was deliberate. Necessary. He hated it anyway.
Back in the hotel, the room was too quiet after the circuit noise.
Air-con hummed. He showered until the water ran cold, trying to rinse off the day, the frustration, the low ache that had settled under his ribs since France.
Naked, except for the towel low on his hips, he dropped onto the bed and picked up his phone.
The chat with her was still open from right after they’d left the villa.
That last morning on the terrace, over coffee, they’d quietly agreed: friends.
Colleagues. No more blurring lines. To prove they could actually do it, he’d sent a quick check-in that afternoon once his flight was boarding—nothing heavy, just the kind of casual message they’d always sent.
Lucas (day of departure, 4:12 PM): Wheels up soon. You make it home okay? Jax already blowing up the group chat about his “genius” debrief notes.
She’d replied a couple hours later.
Mia (evening same day, 8:47 PM): Home and unpacked. Tell Jax his notes are still mostly memes. Safe flight, Moreau. See you in Bahrain.
He hadn’t pushed for more. Neither had she. The thread had gone quiet since—dormant, professional, exactly as agreed.
He stared at the screen, thumb hovering. The cursor blinked.
He typed anyway.
Lucas (9:14 PM): Testing done. Car feels sharper than last year. Jax was loud in the pen today—stealing my material again.
The three dots appeared almost immediately. Then stopped. Then appeared again.
Mia (9:17 PM): He’s stealing your podium potential too. You had some solid runs looked… dignified.
He huffed a laugh—short, surprised. Dignified. The word landed somewhere between tease and truth, and it made his chest loosen for the first time all day.
Lucas (9:19 PM): Dignified? Brutal. I was aiming for “quietly devastating.”
Mia (9:21 PM): Quietly devastating is still quiet. You looked more like you were napping out there.
Lucas (9:23 PM): Napping. Wow. That’s cold.
Mia (9:22 PM): Honest. Big difference.
Lucas (9:23 PM): Okay, fair. But if I’m lying awake at 2 a.m. staring at the hotel ceiling thinking about your honesty… that’s your fault.
The dots danced longer this time. He pictured her in her room—probably still in team kit, hair up, tablet glowing on the bedspread—chewing her lip the way she did when she was deciding how much to give.
Mia (9:25 PM): You’re ridiculous, Moreau.
Lucas (9:26 PM): And you’re still replying.
He left him on read.
He exhaled through his nose, tossed the phone onto the mattress, and stared at the ceiling. The ache was back—lower, insistent. He closed his eyes, tried to push it away. The car. Turn 8. Anything.
But his mind slid back to her: the quick smile she’d given Jax in the pen, the way her throat moved when she swallowed during that briefing, the memory of her in the red bikini in France—wet hair, droplets sliding down her collarbone.
His hand moved under the towel, wrapping around himself. He was already half-hard. He stroked once, slow, testing the memory: her moan against his mouth, the way she’d rocked into his hand, the broken sound of his name.
He groaned low, hips lifting slightly. Faster for a moment. Then slower.
It wasn’t working. The heat stayed shallow, mechanical. No matter how he moved, it didn’t reach the hollow ache underneath. It wasn’t her touch. It wasn’t her.
He stopped. Hand still wrapped around himself; he let go completely. The frustration settled heavier in his chest—sharper now, not dulled.
He lay there, skin cooling, heart still too loud, phone silent beside him.
He dragged the sheet over his hips and picked up the phone again.
Lucas (1:47 AM): Can’t sleep.
No reply.
He didn’t expect one.
* * *
Mia
More testing followed—sharper sun, tighter corners, the same relentless data grind. Mia sat on the edge of her hotel bed, still in yesterday’s team hoodie, legs tucked under her, phone balanced on her knee. The screen glowed with his last message from Bahrain: And yet you’re still typing.
She’d stared at it for twenty minutes, thumb hovering, then locked the screen and tried to work. Tried to sleep. Tried to pretend the quiet wasn’t louder than the circuit noise.
Now, at 7:42 a.m., she typed before she could talk herself out of it.
Mia (7:42 AM): Couldn’t sleep?
Lucas (7:44 AM): Guilty. Blame the jet lag. Or the mental replay of that pool day in France. You in that red bikini was criminal.
Her stomach flipped—warm, traitorous. She pressed her thighs together, remembering the way his eyes had darkened when she’d climbed out of the water, the way his hand had flexed on the pool edge like he was holding himself back.
Mia (7:47 AM): We agreed. Friends.
Lucas (7:49 AM): Friends are allowed to have excellent memories.
She laughed despite herself—soft, surprised. He was impossible. And she was still typing.
Mia (7:52 AM): Dangerous territory, Moreau.
Lucas (7:54 AM): I race in dangerous territory for a living. Suits me.
She stared at the words until they blurred. Her thumb hovered again. Then she locked the phone, stood, and crossed to the window. The city stretched out below—shiny, indifferent, moving on without her.
She didn’t reply again that day.
But the messages kept coming—small, careful, never crossing the line but always toeing it.
A photo of his view from the hotel balcony in Melbourne: Wish you could see this sunrise.
Looks better with company. A quick clip of Jax doing a terrible impression of him in the media pen: He’s stealing my personality now too.
She answered when she could—short, light, never too much. But every reply felt like giving ground. The teasing had become a game—sharp, addictive, and impossible to quit.
* * *
Suzuka arrived—cherry blossoms, technical corners, high stakes.
Lucas took pole, dominated in mixed conditions, and claimed his maiden win.
The parc fermé was chaos: screams, champagne, Jax slapping him on the back.
Mia watched from the monitors in Jax’s garage, pride and ache twisting together in her chest.
An hour later, as the media frenzy died down:
Lucas: First win. Feels unreal.
Mia: You earned it. Every lap.
Lucas: Want to celebrate? Pizza. Your room. No cameras, no team. Just us. Friends catching up.
Mia: …
Lucas: I won’t push. Promise.
She stared at the message for a long minute, heart already climbing into her throat.
Mia: 1428. Thirty minutes. Pizza only.
He knocked exactly thirty minutes later—hoodie up, cap low, pizza box balanced in one hand.
She let him in, door clicking shut behind him with a soft finality that felt louder than it should have.
The room smelled faintly of her citrus body wash until the warm scent of dough, cheese, and pepperoni flooded in with him, rich and immediate, grounding her just enough to breathe.
They sat on the end of the bed—cross-legged, box open between them like a flimsy barrier. Grease-stained napkins, half-eaten slices, easy banter at first.
“Pole to win,” she said, licking sauce from her thumb. “Textbook.”
“Felt like everything clicked,” he replied, eyes flicking to her mouth for a second too long before he looked away. “Like the car was reading my mind.”
She smiled, small and careful. “Or maybe you finally listened to the strategy calls.”
He laughed—low, genuine—but the sound died quicker than usual. “Maybe I just had good motivation.”
Silence settled. The pizza grew cold.
He set his slice down, wiping his hands on a napkin with deliberate slowness. “Mia.”
She met his gaze, pulse already climbing. “We said friends.”
“We did.” He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, voice quieter now. “But friends don’t spend half the weekend trying not to look at each other. Friends don’t feel like this.”
Her breath caught. “Like what?”
“Like every time you’re in the same room, the air gets thick. Like I can’t think straight when you’re close. Like I’ve been hard since the second you opened the door.” He exhaled through his nose, jaw set. “Tell me I’m wrong.”
She didn’t. Couldn’t. Her thighs pressed together under the pretence of shifting her weight, but the pressure only sharpened the ache already building low in her belly.
“You’re not wrong,” she whispered. The admission felt like peeling back skin—raw, exposed, terrifying in how true it was.
He nodded once, like he’d been waiting for permission to admit it. “So what do we do about it?”
Mia swallowed. “We could… ignore it. Pretend it’s not there.”
“We’ve been trying that for months.” His eyes held hers—dark, steady, burning. “Didn’t work.”
She looked down at the pizza box, fingers tracing the cardboard edge, trying to anchor herself. “If we do anything… it changes everything.”
“Yeah.” He leaned back a fraction, giving her space she suddenly didn’t want. “But doing nothing is killing me. You too?”
She nodded, small and honest. “Yeah.” The word cracked on the way out—quiet, but heavy with everything she hadn’t said for months: the nights she’d replayed France, the mornings she’d woken up aching, the way her chest tightened every time she saw him in the paddock and had to look away.