EPILOGUE
◆◆◆
Lucas
The summer sun hung low over the Canterbury plains as Lucas drove the hire car back toward Christchurch airport, windows down, warm wind rushing in with the scent of dry grass, sun-baked earth, and the faint, salty promise of the distant sea.
The week on the farm had passed in a gentle, unhurried blur—days that felt borrowed from time itself.
Mornings started slow: coffee on the wide veranda, steam curling in the cool air while magpies warbled from the pine trees.
Helen would appear with fresh scones, butter melting into the crumb, and Tom would settle in with stories—old shearing gangs, rogue rams, the year the river flooded the back paddock and took half the hay.
Lucas listened, really listened, soaking in a rhythm so different from his own: no qualifying sessions, no strategy calls, just the slow turn of seasons and people who measured time in rain and lambing, not tenths of a second.
Long walks through the paddocks, hand in hand with Mia, grass whispering against their legs.
One afternoon they followed the creek line where willows dipped low, water clear and cold over smooth stones.
She kicked off her jandals and waded in, laughing when he hesitated at the edge like the current might bite.
She tugged him in anyway; he splashed her, she splashed back harder, and soon they were both soaked, breathless, collapsing onto the bank in a tangle of limbs and wet clothes.
The sun dried them slowly while they lay there, her head on his stomach, his fingers combing through her damp hair.
The world narrowed to the sound of water and their quiet breathing.
For the first time in years—maybe ever—he didn’t feel the restless pull toward the next thing, the next lap, the next fight. Here, time didn’t race. It simply was.
Evenings gathered everyone around the outdoor table under strings of fairy lights—barbecued lamb chops, new potatoes, salads Helen had grown herself.
Wine flowed, stories grew taller, laughter rolled across the lawn.
He tried his hand at shearing a few reluctant ewes—mostly getting in the way, earning good-natured ribbing from Tom—and learned to drive the old Ute without stalling it on the gravel tracks.
He stalled it twice the first day; Mia filmed it from the passenger seat, teasing him mercilessly until he got the knack and grinned like he’d won another championship.
The best afternoon came without fanfare: just the two of them lying in the long grass behind the house, clouds drifting overhead in lazy shapes.
He traced idle patterns on her arm, feeling the warmth of her skin, the steady rise and fall of her breathing.
Something settled in him—deep, complete—like a knot he’d carried for years had finally loosened.
It had been exactly what he needed: time that belonged only to them.
No cameras, no telemetry, no expectations.
Just quiet mornings waking tangled in sheets, her head on his chest, his fingers tracing her spine as sunlight slanted through the curtains.
Just evenings when she’d fall asleep against him on the porch swing, breath evening out, and he’d sit there longer than necessary, listening to the cicadas.
Now Mia’s bare feet were propped on the dash, sunglasses sliding down her nose as she scrolled through photos—snaps of him failing spectacularly at milking a cow, of them laughing in the creek, of Helen and Tom hugging him goodbye like he’d always belonged. He glanced over, caught her soft smile.
“Remember the night after Yas Marina?” he said quietly.
She looked up, eyes softening. “How could I forget?”
They’d celebrated into the small hours—champagne corks popping in the paddock, the team turning the garage into an impromptu party, music blaring, mechanics dancing on tool trolleys.
Dana had wrapped them both in bear hugs, tears in her eyes, slurring, “You two lucky bastards finally found each other—I knew it.” Jax had declared himself the matchmaker, pulling them into a group photo with exaggerated winks.
Etienne had cornered him with strategy questions, wide-eyed and buzzing from his own solid finish.
Eddie had been the quiet anchor amid the chaos, clapping Lucas on the back with a grin that said more than words, then turning to Dana when she’d started to sway a little too much on her feet.
She was laughing too hard at something Jax said, glass tipping dangerously in her hand.
Eddie stepped in smoothly, voice low and steady.
“Alright, you,” he murmured, slipping an arm around her shoulders to steady her without making a scene.
“Let’s get you back to the hotel before you start challenging the mechanics to arm-wrestling matches again.
” Dana had giggled, leaning into him a bit, and he’d guided her toward the exit with gentle patience.
Over his shoulder he’d given Lucas a quick nod and a small, knowing smile — the kind that said he was happy for them, and that he’d make sure Dana got to bed safe and sound.
Later, when the noise finally died down, Lucas and Mia had slipped away exhausted, stumbled into his hotel room, shed champagne-soaked clothes, and fallen into bed.
No words needed—just arms around each other, her head under his chin, his hand across her back.
They’d slept tangled and safe, the weight of the season finally gone.
The next morning had brought the serious talks—Marcus and Claire pulling him aside, stern expressions. “Dating someone from a rival team?” He’d met their eyes steadily. “Mia’s not the enemy. She’s the one who made me better. We can handle it. And I’m not giving her up.” They’d relented.
The media had tried to spin drama, but Sienna’s graceful statement shut it down fast. “Lucas and I shared something special,” she’d said in her interview, her voice steady and kind, eyes soft with genuine warmth.
“But sometimes paths diverge, and that’s okay.
He’s found someone who truly understands his world, and I’m happy for them both.
As for me, I’m focusing on my work, new beginnings and whatever comes next.
” Quiet dignity that made the headlines pivot from scandal to respect.
Then Kent—Mia meeting his family properly. His mother fussing over her like a daughter, his brothers teasing her mercilessly, his father softening over whiskey, sharing quiet moments about legacy and love.
And now this: New Zealand. Helen and Tom welcoming him without hesitation, the farm, the plains, the life that had shaped her. Everything had clicked into place.
Mia’s bare feet remained propped on the dash. “Everything’s going to be okay,” she said quietly.
He lifted her hand to his lips, kissed her knuckles slowly. “More than okay.”
They pulled into the airport car park as the sun dipped lower, painting the sky in soft pinks and golds bleeding into lavender.
* * *
Mia
They stepped out of the car into the warm evening air. Luggage out, check-in done, they walked through security hand in hand, shoulders brushing. At the gate, she rested her head on his shoulder, watching planes taxi in the distance, engines roaring as they lifted off into the fading light.
This week had been a homecoming she hadn’t realized she still needed so badly.
Not just the farm—the smells of turned earth and fresh baking, the sound of her Dad’s voice telling the same stories she’d grown up with—but seeing Lucas in it.
Her parents had welcomed him without hesitation, hugged him goodbye like he’d always been part of the rhythm.
Now, at the gate, she felt the quiet certainty settle deeper. Back to the circus. New season. New battles. Rival teams, strategy calls, media pens, the constant hum of pressure.
But this time she wasn’t walking alone. She wasn’t protecting a story that could be taken from her. She was choosing this—with him. The man who’d carried her through silence, through headlines, through doubt, and still reached for her hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.
The boarding call came, soft but insistent. They stood, shoulders touching, and walked down the jetway together, steps unhurried.
Behind them, New Zealand faded into golden light—the plains, the farm, the quiet life they’d borrowed for a week.
Ahead, the roar of engines, the sharp smell of fuel and rubber, the bright chaos of the paddock waiting.
The plane lifted off, tilting into the sunset. Lucas reached for her hand across the armrest. She threaded her fingers through his without looking.
They were going home—not just to Europe, not just to the circuit.
They were going forward, together.
And she knew, with a quiet, unshakable certainty, that they had this.