Carter
Chapter twenty-five
The rain hasn’t let up once.
It hasn’t softened or shifted; it’s just steady, punishing sheets of gray that blur the pit lane into a wash of slate and turn every surface into a liability.
It drums against the hospitality units, rattles the corrugated metal of the garages, and runs in thin, oily rivers along the concrete like it’s looking for something to ruin.
Marco stands a few feet from me, arms crossed, eyes glued to his watch. He’s checked it three times in the last minute. He exhales a plume of mist into the damp air and looks up at the sky like it might actually offer an apology.
“We’re pushing hour four,” he mutters.
I glance past him toward the track. The Safety Car is tucked away now, finally pulled in after two reconnaissance laps that did nothing but confirm the obvious: too much standing water, too much spray.
You couldn’t see five feet ahead once the tires kicked it up.
Controlled chaos only works when the 'control' part is physically possible.
“Drivers’ meeting,” a voice crackles over Marco's comms. “Emergency briefing in the FIA unit.”
Dominic is already moving before the sentence finishes. He peels away from the corner of the garage opposite to mine, his posture locked in a way I’ve learned means he’s holding himself together by sheer force of will.
Up close, he looks like utter shit. His skin has a gray, washed-out quality that the harsh overhead lights only make worse, and his eyes are bloodshot enough to tell the real story.
He’d told me once, that he only ever has one drink at the parties he throws.
Looking at him now I deduce he didn’t stop at one last night. Not even close.
I shouldn't care. I tell myself it’s just another variable in a season full of them—a driver who doesn’t respect his own recovery time isn't my problem.
My father follows a beat later, his expression of professional neutrality...
“Lucky you made it in early,” Marco says, his tone clipped but conversational. “Flights were grounded an hour after your wheels touched down.”
Dominic huffs a breath that might have been a laugh if it weren't so hollow. “Threaded a pocket,” he says, his voice flat. “Storm chased us the whole way from Italy.”
I stay back, my eyes fixed too hard on the monitor, though the screen is just a blur of scrolling data I’m not actually reading.
He doesn't look at me. Not properly. But I swear in my peripherals I feel the weight of his gaze drift over my shoulder—a heavy, momentary second of a look that makes the hair on my arms stand up. I tell myself I’m imagining it, that it’s just the humidity or the static from the storm, because the alternative is too dangerous to sit with.
Before I can look up to confirm it, he turns and disappears into the gloom, swallowed by a cluster of umbrellas and officials.
I don’t watch him go. I don't give myself the luxury of wondering what that look meant. Instead, I find work to do.
With the delay dragging on and the rain showing no signs of stopping, the call comes down to start relocating the sensitive racks away from the outer garage bays.
The water is creeping in—slow, persistent, and lethal to high-end electronics.
When another mechanic asks for someone to handle the back-line inventory, I volunteer before he can even finish the sentence.
It’s a perfect excuse to be alone. I need the isolation of the back shelving, the metal, and the mindless, repetitive rhythm of sorting equipment.
If I’m moving, I’m not thinking. If my hands are full of fiber-optic cables and ruggedized cases, I don’t have room to wonder why Dominic looks like he’s dying on his feet or why the air in the garage feels so much thinner when he’s not standing in it.
Time stretches. Thirty minutes turn into an hour. My shoulders are beginning to ache, a dull throb I’ve learned to push into the background of my mind, right next to the image of his bloodshot eyes. I focus on the cables. The sensors. The boxes.
I’m shoving a heavy crate on the top shelf near the back wall—a rack of spare sensor looms—when I feel the shift.
The crate is taller than I am, packed tight, and as I push it toward the edge, the weight doesn't catch where it should.
It tilts at a sickening angle, gravity winning before I can adjust.
“Shit,” I hiss, bracing my shoulder against the plastic as the world suddenly gets very heavy.
The weight hits me harder than I expected. My feet slide a fraction on the damp concrete, and I grit my teeth, my muscles straining to push the dead weight onto the shelf. But I’m out-leveraged, and the metal shelving groans in a way that says it’s about to give up on me.
Sometime earlier I’d put headphones on, an attempt to further keep the world out. I didn't hear him come back. I didn't hear the heavy thud of his boots or the shift in the air.
I’m bracing for the impact of the crate when the air behind me suddenly changes. It’s a pressure, a sudden wall of warmth that cuts through the damp chill of the garage.
The weight doesn’t vanish, but it redirects. A pair of arms—strong, steady, and radiating a jarring familiarity—reach up on either side of me. Broad shoulders brush mine, and I register too quickly who they belong to. I don't need to see his face; I know the specific, heavy anchor of his presence.
Dominic doesn't say a word. He just braces his hands flat against the crate and shoves it back into place with a firm, practiced force. It slides home with a solid sound that vibrates through my own bones.
He doesn't move immediately. He stays there, his chest nearly brushed against my back, his arms trapping me inside.
For a heartbeat, the rain and the noise of the mechanics on the other side of the room disappear entirely as I slowly lower my headphones from my ears.
There is only the sound of his ragged breathing against the crown of my head and the heat coming off his body.
He feels... electric. And dangerously close.
I turn slowly, and because he hasn’t stepped back yet, I’m forced to look up. He’s right there. Close enough that I can see the faint tremor in his cheekbone and the way the moisture on his skin isn't just rain—it's a cold sweat.
We’re in that weird, suffocating limbo where we aren't friends but we aren't strangers either.
He slowly eases back, but he doesn't go far. “You were about to wear that,” he says quietly, his voice gravelly and low.
“I had it,” I reply, the lie coming out a little too fast, a little too defensive.
Standing this close, the overhead lights are merciless, catching the deep, bruised discoloration under his eyes and the slight, erratic pulse in his neck.
He looks exhausted—not just from the storm or the travel, but bone-deep, as if the effort of staying upright is draining his battery to zero.
There’s a haze behind his eyes that wasn't there before I left, a subtle, sharp hurt that flickers the second he catches my gaze. I can see the gold flecks in his dark irises, usually so bright when he’s taunting me, now clouded and dull.
The set of his mouth is tight, a hard line of endurance that makes the lie of his posture even more obvious.
He’s the one who pushed me away. He’s the one who decided I was a miscalculation that needed to be solved. But looking at the way his fingers twitch, I realize he’s failing his own math.
“Thanks anyway,” I add, the words stiff and formal, a shield to keep me from reaching out to see if he’s actually as aloof as he looks.
He nods once. He doesn’t smile. The silence between us in our private alcove stretches.
“How was the meeting?” I ask, clearing my throat.
“Delayed,” he says, his eyes tracking a leak in the roof instead of my face. “Until tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? They almost never scrub a Saturday completely.”
“Visibility is zero. They tried the Safety Car again while we were in the briefing. It was like driving into a wall of milk.”
“Maybe it’s the visibility,” I say, my voice tilting into something mocking. “Or maybe you’re just having trouble seeing straight today. Was the vintage at the party last night worth the hangover, or is this just your new signature look?”
The tendons in his neck pull taut. He doesn't look away. “I didn’t realize you were keeping tabs on my intake. I thought you were too busy ‘finding work’ to notice.”
“Hard not to notice when you’re vibrating,” I retort, gesturing vaguely to the slight tremor in his stance. “You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge and then decided to stand in a monsoon for the aesthetic. It’s a bit pathetic, even for you.”
His eyes darken, the golden flecks turning to flint. He steps a fraction closer, the closeness of him pressing into my space again. “If I’m so pathetic, why are you still standing here? The exit isn’t blocked.”
“My work is here,” I snap. “And unfortunately, so are you.”
He opens his mouth to give as good as he's got, but the air suddenly charges with a heavy, static weight.
As he speaks, the bank of servers behind us begins to whine—a high-pitched, protesting sound that makes the hair on my neck stand up.
The overhead lights don't just snap off; they struggle first, pulsing twice with a sickly violet hue before a heavy thunk echoes from the circuit breakers at the far end of the bay. Then, the darkness drops.
The hum of the garage dies mid-note, replaced by a sharp, violent crack of static from the back wall and the unmistakable sting of ozone.
“Hold your area!” Marco’s voice booms, his shout amplified by the sudden, eerie quiet of the dead electronics. “Don’t move! Back-line power just tripped—we’ve got water contact on the mains! Stay exactly where you are until electric clears the floor!”
I freeze, my back still pressed against the shelving. Dominic hasn't moved. “Looks like you’re stuck,” he says, his voice a low, rough rasp in the dark.