where your dreams come true…

Silverstone's famed circuit grounds open up in front of you, unfolding with all its great promises, unescapable legacy in every turn you take. It teems with energy, unsubtle, palpable anticipation crackling in the very air. You near choke on it, passing through security and stepping into its bounds. The melee of fans, decked out in violent reds, oranges and greens, the inquiring glances that take the two of you in as you make your way down the path, barely concealed hunger and awe in their faces.

Everyone is alert, all around you seem unable to wait for the culmination of today's race – though it is nowhere near being the championship decider, it's impossible to resist the call of Silverstone's allure. A home race, and so many promising drivers that have fought against each other all season…all eyes are waiting to see who’ll stand atop the podium at today's close.

You move unfocused, a dance you've done so many times now you could do it with your eyes closed. Know when to hold out your pass, know when to move around the raise in the ground that you'd once tripped over, know how to smile and contort your features accordingly, adoringly, the picture of smitten on Niki's arm.

Nobody would know you’d woken up on the opposite edges of the same bed this morning, would never be able to guess from the way he holds your hand that you’ve not exchanged a single word. 

In the motorhome you take your first clear breath. Press your back against the wall as Niki begins to shed his skin, slips into the one he's been wearing more often than not lately. The man before you is foreign, unfamiliar to the one who'd stood on your doorstep after a long haul with such a bashful smile you'd been softened to all his whims.

When the crowd around him thins out enough (they do not disperse, loathe to leave him alone, and he even more, to call them off) you slip through the fringes to tug at his sleeve. To the others, it is a picture of romance, the way he offers you his ear. To your bruising heart, it is a mockery of earnestness that embitters you.

"What?" he asks, quietly and you duck your head to meet his eyes. He's never felt so far out of reach than he has now, standing in front of you with something akin to indifference, irritation in his gaze as if you were a gnat to be brushed away.

"I…" your mouth dries and you have to swallow, tongue thick and clumsy. "Be careful out there today. Don't be reckless."

He presses his lips together impatiently, as if he's a child being told something he already knows and is waiting for the tirade against him to end.

"I won't," he says, a touch arrogant.

"I'm serious," you say, straightening and steeling your voice when it becomes clear he's not hearing a word you're saying. "I'm not fighting with you about this, just remember what I said about priorities."

His eyes widen then, as if registering the ultimatum you've issued him – drive clean, or I leave. Then, he recovers, an unwillingness to put stock in your words clear on his face. You blink up at him, slow, unbudging.

"That's all," you say quietly, making your retreat when he says nothing. "Drive safe."

The uproarious cry that goes up behind you when he's folded back into the throng of his team, war-like and merciless, feels like as good an answer as any.

Where before you'd been keenly aware of every passing second leading up to the race, today the time slips away from you until you feel as though you had only to blink before the cars were pulling away into their formation lap.

You choose not to stand within the Williams garage today, instead managing to wedge yourself between some of the spectators leaning against the railing on the balcony overtop the garages. From here you can see the cars lined up on the grid, can see Niki exchanging words with his team as they take the warmers off the tyres – though summer draws closer, Silverstone is still chilly and there've been talks of possible rain that make your gut clench nervously.

The grid survives the formation lap with no issues, the train of cars pulling back up to the starting line and stopping within their assigned places. Niki starts in fourth place today, and despite yourself your eye finds the 1-4-1 livery in second and fifth. There's commentary going on overhead, but the voices reach your ears in a scrambled mess of sound, muddled by your apprehension.

You watch the engineers and team principals move about the pits, telemetry data lighting up the pit wall screens. Now, all eyes are on the clock as the second hand draws closer and closer to 12.

One by one, the red lights go out until the last remains. Time stands still for a second, your breath caught in your throat, sound whittling down into nothing but a stillness in your ears until the start timer blacks out and it all comes rushing back in a deafening surge, the crowd roaring as the cars lunge forward.

Lights out and away we go!

Niki's car barrels down the straight immediately, though Alex remains close behind, undeterred by the quick reaction. You have no doubt Price had instructed him prior to get past the Williams in order to help defend Kyle while he claws his way to pole.

Turn 1 is a sharp jut to the right that makes your teeth ache, clenching your jaws and clutching the railing as the train of cars veer quick to make the turn. Niki rises from fourth to third place by going wide and cutting off his competition. Alex gets stuck in fifth for only a moment, before turn 2 quickly approaches and he manages to overtake the rookie ahead of him, trailing quick behind Niki.

Meanwhile, Kyle seems to fly down the straight before cutting sharply through the corners of turns 3 and 4. The distance between second and third place seems to widen, though the driver in first manages to maintain a considerable gap of his own between his car and Kyle's. The interval between the cars flashes on the leaderboard and you bite your lip as Niki's pendulates, sharply decreasing until you're sure you're going to hear he's overtaken the 1-4-1, only to stagnate and lengthen once again.

"Oh! We have contact! One of the Mclarens have spun off track!"

You hear a cry go up and the track lights flash yellow suddenly, the cameras suddenly cutting to a replay from the back of the grid, where the orange car is hit from behind and spirals off the track. One of the back tyres snaps upwards and you catch a split second of black debris flying upwards from the contact.

"And that is race OVER for Moseling! With too much damage to the suspension, he'll have to retire the car."

"Disappointing, I'm sure, for the young Australian, who we heard on the radio earlier this week talking about some issues with the steering which we thought had been resolved but evidently not."

"Yeah, he'll definitely be having words with his team, I imagine. Back to the race leaders…Garrick is chasing down Dupont and OH!" your heart leaps into your throat at the shout, eyes watching the 1-4-1 lunge forward in efforts to overtake the car in front of him. "So close, but not fast enough to overtake him…and he's still got that Williams in his rearview mirror…"

"And we've just heard there'll be no safety car, so we are good to keep racing."

"An interesting decision from the Racing Director, don't you think?…."

20 laps in, it all goes to hell in a handbasket when, right as a train of cars pass the start-finish line, one of the rookies makes contact with another driver's, and their rear wing goes flying, skidding off the track and leaving a trail of material in its wake.

Even before it's confirmed, it's easy to tell what will happen.

Sure enough, a safety car is announced and you glance up to the leaderboard, finding the +4.233 second interval next to Niki's name slowly ticking down until there is a mere 0.3 seconds between his car and Kyle's. But with the safety car, much of the grid begins to pull into the pits to change their tyres.

You watch the 1-4-1 come in a lap later, heading the caravan taking advantage of this momentary reprieve. Niki, likely on instruction from his team, follows sharply.

In abject horror, you peer over the railing as the 1-4-1 team steady themselves as Kyle's car comes in to pit, a routine they've executed hundreds of times over, so ingrained in their muscles – you know Price wouldn't accept anything less than military strict perfection. But the light goes green and a scream dies in your throat, just barely holding yourself from lurching over the railing – as if you could do anything, as though you could prevent this – when Kyle's car pulls away and wobbles.

His rear tyre is missing. 

Seconds are ticking and with each his position drops further and further down the standings. Niki's car has already pulled out and is making his way out of the pit lane back into the throng.

The onboard camera shows Kyle slamming a fist against his steering wheel, and your eyes find John Price, sitting stiff and reddening on the Pit Wall, certain death promised in the clench of his jaw.

When he rejoins the fray, Kyle has barely managed to remain in the points, just a few tenths of a second shy of tenth place. And distracted as he is from the injury of an unsafe release – announced moments later by the commentators – he quickly drops a couple places more.

Half a race more to go, you wonder how he'll manage to make this up when caught in the middle, surrounded on both sides by cars competing in a league of their own. The midfield swallows the 1-4-1 car, and you taste blood where you've bitten your tongue.

Meanwhile, Niki, now in fifth place, inches closer and closer to the car ahead of him and you're beginning to note the rapidly darkening clouds overhead. You're not the only one, either; a few minutes into lap 24, the Williams team radio informs Niki that they'll probably be able to expect rain in a few laps.

They've anticipated this, but it still makes your stomach curdle at the prospect.

And you're right to dread it, because as the first few drops of rain fall, they quickly give way to a heavier downpour that drives most of the guests inside to seek shelter from the wet. The awning over your head would shield you from the worst of it, if it weren't for the blistering wind that directs the spray directly your way, soaking into your clothes, streaming down your face.

Frozen, you stand there with your hands clutching that railing, unable to tear your eyes from the scene, unable to lift your legs for the roots they've seemed to grown, pinning you in place to watch it unfold.

The commentators rapidly switch cameras back and forth between the race leaders – Niki, overtaking, sharp, nearly sending another driver off the track and the incident being investigated – and the midfield, where Kyle's car is struggling amongst the midfield battleground.

With each lap, you watch a legacy whose beginnings you'd witnessed (had been there when he'd crossed that finish line that first year, could still taste the champagne that'd been on his tongue afterwards when he'd taken you to bed) beginning to crumble. It's obvious to everyone around you too – for the first time in years, Kyle will not be crowned Silverstone's winner, let alone stand atop its podium.

There's a pervasive glee in their words, you realise, listening to the commentators, almost vulturic the way they observe his performance. To see one of the greats be brought down, really brought down – a loss this deep would go beyond any other; no…this, the significance of this place, of his career, this was the beginnings of the end, a flag signalling the turn of history.

Niki's incident is marked as just that — you watch, clothes clinging to you, as they laud the trajectory of his career this season. Just as one empire falls, there must always be another waiting to take its place, and Niki seems in that moment untouchable, reckless in a way that is forgiveable when one is young, when one has not yet learned the ways of the world. Niki heralds the beginning of a new era, ushers in the new movement with a boyish face and sweetness that had once, to you, seemed genuine.

But you stir when, almost knowingly, Kyle begins to work his way back up. Never had been willing to admit defeat easily, that one. Something shifts, he spots an opening and darts through the throng, shooting up two places.

"An impressive overtake from Garrick, but there are still 8 places to go and just under 20 laps to go — will Silverstone's reigning champion be able to hold onto his winning streak?"

It's a betrayal, and one of the highest order, your hope. Yet you cannot stifle it, for it grows a life of its own, wildfire-like, singeing you from within as you lean forward over the railing. Finding that name on the leaderboard you watch it ascend, ascend, picking off his competition one by one in a manner so composed it's eerie. That pinpoint focus again, that worldview narrowed down to nothing but the tailights in front of him, a level head in all manners of terrain.

Come hell or high water, you would put your faith in Kyle Garrick.

— or at the very least, his ability to walk through it unflinchingly.

It's a composure born out of his years of experience, out of countless podiums, countless eras that have risen and fallen since his entry into the scene. Such composure is something Niki does not yet have, and you know the team downstairs must be keeping him apprised of the closely approaching 1-4-1, for the way his movements become somewhat erratic, sharply braking, trying to throw off what might very well be the devil on his tail.

But the 1-4-1 emerges from the thick of the spray into his rearview mirrors and you watch, as the final laps approach, as they go racing.

Even through the din of the near torrential downpour, the rumblings of thunder over Silverstone circuit, the roar of the cars is unmistakeable. You're buzzing, gooseflesh from the adrenaline or the cold you have no idea, leaning over the railing to peer at the live play on the screen ahead of you, eyes catching the blurs of red and blue and white when they whip past you.

Now in first and third place, only one car stands between Gaz and Niki's car. Alex has since swapped positions to defend in fourth once more, and you're beginning to hear talk of tyre degradation from the 1-4-1 radio as they turn a corner, something viciously relayed to Niki as though he needs the reassurance — he's all but got the win and yet they're still concerned about the car two places behind him. They're right to be, you think, watching Kyle so clinically perform a hair-raising maneuver — cutting through the inside and veering so close to the other car you think they might collide (but they don't. Of course they don't. He has too much skill, has learnt this car just as he had each one before it, controls it as fluidly as though it were an extension of himself) — through the hairpin that lands him in second place.

You taste blood, teeth splitting through the skin of your bottom lip with a sharp sting as you watch — as you feel the excitement amplify around you. Deafening bellows pour out from the stands, the commentators begin to scream as Kyle finally catches up to Niki and the gap between their cars whittles down to a mere +0.2 seconds.

The final lap begins and you watch, eyes burning to stay open with the water streaming into them, as the afternoon's battle begins its final act. Niki manages to tear away from the grasp of the 1-4-1 just long enough to cut through turns 1 and 2, but in turn 3, you nearly fling yourself forward and off the railing, along with the other racegoers in the stands whose energy almost seems to pulsate, palpable and contagious, when Gaz cuts in front of Niki and gains the lead.

Garrick's got pole!

Did you see that? That was beautiful racing from the Englishman, who we all thought for a second there was going to forfeit his running streak at Silverstone, and to a Williams at that!

But the gap between them doesn't seem to be getting any bigger, Jude, and in fact I think Landau isn't going to go down without a fight! Is he – HE'S GOING IN FROM THE OUTSIDE!

AND LANDAU IS BACK IN FIRST, BUT GARRICK ISN'T GIVING UP! Less than half a lap to go and it's never been more unclear who we're going to see at the top of the podium at the end of today's race!

You watch Kyle attempt to send it, the car speeding up behind Niki until they're almost side by side down the straight before turn 15. All around you, there are echoes of screaming encouragement, some so blistering it would make you wince had you not been entirely focused on the sharp turn of Kyle's tires as he cuts suddenly in front of Niki. Or tries to — it's a move that Niki anticipates, and he doesn't give him a single inch, surging forward before he can.

Three more turns. Less than a minute to the finish line. Your heart might give out.

They go down the straight to turn 16, and your mouth is dry, watching them go near wheel to wheel. The path ahead curves hard, a narrow left that juts back to the right and you watch the cars; they almost seem to slide along the track, unwilling to give each other an inch —

The rain beats down harder, your clothes are soaked through and you feel it, even from the balcony. You know it even before he does it, what Niki is going to do.

They approach the turn and you watch in slowly blooming horror, as Niki cuts in front of him, his front tyres only an inch ahead of Kyle's, the car on the outside. He steers into the turn with such aggression the strength leaves your legs.

It's only Kyle's lightning fast reflexes, the car pulling back almost immediately, that saves both of them from the — Absolutely suicidal move from Landau, said with nowhere near enough admonishment, and rather, utter glee.

You watch the 1-4-1 chase the Williams down but it's not nearly enough. That singular moment, of choosing sense rather than giving into the never-sated, feckless desire to win that had driven the driver in front of him, is what costs Kyle the years long streak he's held.

Legacy comes tumbling down amongst the roar of a sea of blue, and you totter back inside to slump against a chair. The commotion around you is dulled around the edges, racegoers in various states of commiseration and triumph blending into one amidst the pundits’ bellowing. The room empties as quickly as it had flooded, the crowd pulled downstream, downstairs, to wrangle as close a spot to the celebrations as they can. 

You remain there, staring at the replay on the television screen; that sharp turn from all possible angles, the waterlogged black and white flag, a blur in the heavy rain, the thunder as the wrong car crosses the finish line. 

The weight of a decision made for you, awaiting fruition.

All is silent in the 1-4-1 garage when you slip inside. Sounds from the celebration outside are muffled as they leak in — a celebration you are conspicuously absent for, an absence that will surely cause talk but you cannot find it within yourself to care, rain soaked and weighed down by more than just the water. Your heels echo against the floor with every step, slow, unsure as you navigate your way through the empty space.

Not a single engineer to be found, no mechanics or press managers, everyone joining the crowd outside. Where you should be, offering up a beaming smile while Niki lauds the medal they sling around his neck, thrusting up that cup like it means something — like his win isn't forged in deceit, in bad faith.

This is no sport for moralising, there is no nobility to be found in diesel and gunmetal. More, you've no business stepping up on your pulpit to proselytise. Yet the show of pure malice your boyfriend has shown, the utter disregard for his and the lives of the drivers around him, sheer impetuousness in every waking moment since the lights first went out in Melbourne — you search within yourself to find any remaining scraps of the affection you'd felt so deeply before this had begun and find only repulsion.

A poor mockery, one to fill the cavity in your heart that Kyle had left behind, as true as the latter had said.

You find him finally in the dark, in a tub that gleams from the dim light filtering in through thin slats in the wall. Water pools around the vat, a mirror of the raindrops that splatter gently around your feet, and Kyle sits with his head hung between his knees.

"Come to gloat," he asks, without lifting his head.

You're frozen in the doorway, unable to move. "No," you manage to force past your hoarse throat. Like you've been screaming — like you had back then, always riding home with your voicebox wrecked from all the madness in the garage, slapping the arm of whoever had the misfortune of standing next to you, jumping up and down with every obscene cheer tumbling from your lips like he'd be able to hear it in the car, like it would somehow spur it to go faster, back before everything had spoiled.

"A man's gonna get ideas," he rumbles and you nearly stagger back when you hear the raspiness to his voice, grief wound tight around his throat, a dagger to your not so unfeeling heart. "Second time now that you're here when you should be with him."

In the emptiness, your heart pounds, loud, thundering. You lick your lips, taste the metal rain on your tongue. "…I should."

He raises his head wearily, a question in the line of his brow. "Then what," he asks.

Water drips into your eyes, rolls down your cheek and your answer feels condemning. So you step aside it, averting your eyes to where the beams of light ribboning through the slats highlight soft dust motes in the air. The room is dimly lit, and you can feel the chill of the ice against your skin, your own clothes soaked through. Water drips in steady silence at your feet.

Kyle stands then, and you can hear the water slosh around him, the chatter of ice as the water converges, the wet slap of his feet against the floor, the rustle of his towel as he slings it around himself. Only when it falls silent do you dare to look back at him.

He has his back to you, standing still by the edge of the tub.

“You could’ve cut him off in that last turn,” you tell him slowly. “You would’ve, before.”

His lips press together, irritated, uncomfortable. You can see it, how his shoulders begin to hike up at the mention of his loss. 

“You’ve done worse for less,” you stress, when he doesn’t answer. “I know how much this race means to you – why’d you throw it?”

“I didn’t throw it,” he snaps, finally and you exhale.

“But you didn’t cut him off. Why didn’t you cut him off?”

You think of a dynasty he’d crafted from the ground up and had defended with such a severity you would have thought his life and honour were on the line. You think of it now, nothing but ruins and an echo of the past, his worst fear manifest – traded in for a newer, shinier model. 

“Would you be here if I had,” he asks quietly and your fingers curl into fists.

Would you? 

“I don’t know,” you admit, voice trembling. “I don’t know if I could go back to that.”

He nods, simply, as if that’s that. You’re confused, by how easy it is for him to pretend he isn’t devastated by the loss, only – no, you can see it clearly when he turns his head and you catch the glimmer of tears that have long since bled into his profile. Not pretending then, but laying it bare. It whittles you down to the core, and the air in the room grows thin.

Oh.

Now, more than ever, you feel the weight of just what he would do – of what he has been doing, to get you back.

“You said to me once,” you begin shakily, interrupting the tense silence. “You told me he was just an imitation of you. Do you remember that.”

He inclines his head ever so slightly, a wordless answer. 

“I think I knew that, too. Deep down, I knew it. I didn’t want to admit it, but I did. And today –” you cut yourself off with a bitter laugh. “I don’t think he would ever throw a race for me. I don’t think it would ever occur of him to think of anything else.”

“Pretty stupid of him,” Kyle says mildly, and you laugh again, reaching a hand up to scrub your eyes.

“But you do? Even then?” you ask, tentative, unsure. 

He shrugs a shoulder. “Hard not to, when I know you’re watching. You don’t believe me?”

“No..I mean..I don’t know,” you say helplessly. “You’ve just always been so focused, it’s hard to believe you’re thinking of anything else when you’re in that car.”

He turns to look at you, head tilting in muted exasperation. “I’ve thought of you every single day since I saw you again. I can’t think of anything else,” he stresses, voice hardening in frustration. It devastates you when, in a small, quiet voice unlike which you have ever heard from him, he asks, “Do you really not get it?”

Your mouth opens and closes, choking on the words you cannot say, cannot calm your mind enough to say. The silence stretches and there’s a blaze in his eyes as he waits for you.

Finally, a quiet, “Me too.” that makes your eyes water to admit. You look at the floor by your rain soaked shoes, the puddle that warps your miserable reflection. “Me too.”

“Say it,” he says.

You direct a pleading glance at him he doesn't give in to.

"Do I have to?"

A shadow of a smile carves its way upwards, just the barest thing, but it's there and it spurs you on.

"Humour me."

One last ditch attempt, you bite, "Thought you knew me so well."

But it is purely because he knows you so well that he doesn't rise to your provocation, only waiting patiently, brown eyes boring into yours.

You had tried…

"It was never —" you take a shuddering breath, forcing the words out with every bit of effort you can. It’s difficult. Every inch of you wishes to hide away from the truth of ith: "It was never him I wanted to be with. It was you. Somehow, it was always about you, I guess…only ever you."

You laugh, feel the tears in your eyes as you stare at him. "Pretty stupid to think I could kid myself forever, huh?"

Kyle stares from across the room and then he smiles. It's a gentle, awful sort of thing that comforts you as much as it carves your heart out, that makes you feel the full weight of your infidelity.

A better woman would have marched out into the crowd and broken it off with Niki before running into the arms of the man she supposedly would never forgive. A better woman might never have agreed to go out with him in the first place.

But there's a knowingness in his smile that says, you might have tried to pretend otherwise, but you are just as awful as the man before you.

He's close enough now that you can see the goosebumps lining his arms, can see the hairs raised along them. The way his shoulders sag, a long-carried burden finally lifted as he steps forward until he stands before you.

Kyle smells like ozone still when he nudges into your space, and fond affection colours his features when he looks at you. Cold hands trail up your arm, leaving burning prints in their wake until they slip beneath your jaw to cradle you, tender, delicate. Your eyes flutter at the touch, close when his nose brushes against the softness of your cheek.

He lowers his mouth to yours for the first time in five years with an aching slowness, gentle in the press of his tongue against yours. And yet you can feel the hunger that thrums beneath his skin, tempered just barely, held at bay only by a quickly fraying knot.

The world outside celebrates the dawn of a new era, the comedown of a legacy ushered in with uproarious laughter and champagne. And yet, your shared losses lose their bite with every exchanged breath, every tilt of your head and brush of chilly fingers against your sodden clothes.

Your lips part and Kyle licks into your mouth with a muffled groan, your own hands grabbing at the soft skin of his shoulders for purchase. It's searing, the way your skin comes alive under his touch, under his mouth.

Had it truly been so long since you'd last been touched by him, you wonder, as he walks the two of you backwards and you meet the solidness of a wall. Has it been so long since you’ve been touched in this way, to be peeled back to your barest parts, tender to every touch and achingly vulnerable. He falls into you like no time has passed, and your body reacts in turn, as if it had only been asleep and now awoke to its most intimately known companion.

He tugs at the fabric of your shirt, no doubt ruined by now, and it falls to the floor only moments later. His eyes are dark, wide, and his chest heaves as he gazes down at you. There's something about the depth of his stare, so stripped of pretense, desire laid plainly before you – it makes your breath catch. A blink, and he begins to devour you, mouth descending upon the slope of your neck with fervour. You can't help the moan that slips from your lips, head dropping back against the wall to press yourself closer, to offer more of yourself if he would just keep doing that.

But you should know by now, should know better, that it hasn't ever been easy with Kyle. He stops to look up at you and the curl of his mouth makes you want to shrink away, arrogant, self-satisfied bastard that he is when it comes to you. You promptly clamp your mouth shut and he chuckles, lowering his mouth until it's hovering over the softness of your breast, warm breath skittering over your clammy skin.

"Oh, don't stop on my account." He laves his tongue over the same spot, as if to coax that sound out once more. "It must've been really bad if you're getting this worked up over a little kiss. Poor thing."

"Shut the fuck up," you whisper, gritting your teeth. Your nails dig into his shoulders and he hisses out a laugh, muscles bunching up reflexively beneath your touch. "You're such a – just shut up."

"You're so mean to me." He shakes his head, distractedly. You have to bite back a gasp when his hand trails upwards, skimming the sensitive skin of your stomach to brush over your bra. The skittering sensation makes your muscles jump, makes your breath catch. He leans downwards, pressing a kiss against your chest, right above your heart. Directs brown eyes upwards to stare at you plaintively. “Didn’t you miss me? Even a little bit?”

He pulls the cups down before you can answer, and you're jolting as he takes a nipple into his mouth, head thudding against the wall. The light drag of his teeth against it makes you whimper once more, and you clutch him tighter when his hand squeezes the other – no, it hadn't been ego when he had said he knew you. Each calculated touch strips you down, layer by layer, until you're weak-kneed and panting for him.

“I missed you,” he says when he lets go, flicking a hooded glance upward. And then he’s paying the same attention to your other breast, muffling a groan into your skin when you arch into his touch. "Thought about you, missed how pretty you sound when I'm making you feel good – you remember Vienna?"

You let out a gasp and his fingers press firmer against your skin. "Mmh, I thought about that a lot."

And then he's pulling away, sinking to his knees with every kiss he trails down your bare stomach. The sight of him at your feet is one to behold, hands gathering fistfuls of your skirt so that you're bared to him, tugging the ruined fabric of your underwear aside. Brown eyes watch you hungrily as he leans in, nose skimming the softness of your thigh.

"You gonna let me have you?" he asks, like he doesn't already know the answer. "No going back from this, you know."

You can't help it, you laugh. Brushing your hand against his cheek, tracing the hollow beneath his eye, trailing over his cheekbone. "I think we crossed the line a long time ago."

He grins, a wicked, awful thing that carries no remorse or shame – for what he has done, for what he's about to do. And then he buries himself between your thighs.

The first lash of his tongue makes you gasp, and he's quick to wedge his shoulder between your legs, supporting your weight just as your knees begin to buckle. Your hands run over his hair, knead his shoulder, press against your own mouth to muffle the sounds that have begun to seep out and echo in the empty room.

The sound of the fireworks outside are muffled and you're aware of the people that are likely to still be milling around the garage, but you're much more focused on bucking your hips against the warm wetness of Kyle's mouth, letting him devour you with a growing intensity. And it isn't only you that has begun to unravel – he moans against your cunt, lapping at your folds and clit messily. The sight of him, the sound of him – filthy, wet – is what eventually tips you over the edge, coming with a loud cry against his tongue.

He sits back on his heels after it's all over, after the worst of the shocks have shuddered their way through you, and you look down at him. There's a sheen on his chin, the sticky remnants of you that he doesn't bother to wipe away, and in fact he seems to preen at wearing your claim on him. His chest heaves, eyes half-lidded as he stares up at you.

"Well?" he asks, after a pause, voice gravelly. "Good enough to keep you from running back out to that little boyfriend outside?"

You glare weakly down at him, sinking down until you're knelt in front of him. "You just had your mouth on me and you're still worried about him?"

He hums non-committally and reaches a hand out, tugging your wrist forward until you crawl forward, forehead pressed against his. "Wonder where he thinks you are…wonder what he'd do if he knew you were in here spreading your legs for me."

The words send a thrill through you and you know he sees it, the way his mouth curls into a mocking smirk.

"I bet you'd like that, wouldn't you," you murmur, leaning in to kiss him. He laughs against your lips, and you bring your arms around his neck, pulling him forward until you're flush against the ground, his body hovering over yours. "I bet it tore you up to not do anything when he touched me…did you want to break his face when he kissed me?"

His fingers dig into your hips in an unwilling answer, almost painful, and you laugh breathlessly. "Still so jealous," you tease, pulling him down to meet your mouth again, unable to hide your smile.

"Only when it comes to you," he snaps, and then you're feeling his fingers prod at your entrance, thick and mean, the way they stretch you out. But it isn't enough, not when he adds another, or when he thumbs at your clit and makes your hips roll upwards. Not nearly enough, you need –

"More," you gasp, blinking open teary eyes to gaze at him. "More. Kyle, please."

"Yeah?" he murmurs, dropping his head to nose at your jaw, nipping at the sensitive skin beneath it. "You want more?"

"Stop – stop teasing," you insist, pulling him down until your chest is flush against his, bending your leg to curl it around his waist. "Please just – fuck me."

And he does.

Not a moment later, his fingers withdraw and you feel the head of him against you, heavy, warm, rocking against the cradle of your thighs once, twice, before he pushes into your cunt, slipping a little against the wetness of your folds before pushing in and you're letting out a load moan at the stretch – so much fuller than a few fingers could prepare, you can feel him in your stomach, can feel the way he stutters a little when you close around him. The bitten off curse that is lost to the air, the weight of his head against your neck as he inches himself in, adjusts to your heat.

Sweat lines your brow as you envelop him, little by little until he's seated fully inside, until he's screwing his face up like he's trying to savour this, like he's on the precipice of losing it entirely.

"Fffuck…" he hisses, and his own breath hitches when you rock slightly against him, a hand coming to press against your stomach and hold you in place. "Just..just give me a moment, baby…thought about this all the time but the real thing…you're so fucking good."

"Yeah?" you whisper, kissing his jaw. "Feels good? I’m making you feel good?"

He lets out a wrecked laugh. "You're going to send me to an early grave, you know that."

You shake your head, sucking a mark slow against his neck, laving your tongue messily over the spot. "Nn-nh, I just got you back, I don't plan to let you go for a long time.."

He groans, mutters something that sounds like a curse, and then he begins to move, rolling his hips slow at first, before thrusting a little harder. The smug grin on your face falls open soon enough, lips parting to let out gasps of breath as he fucks you deep, right there on the floor of the garage. The ground is unforgiving against your back but he keeps you tucked tight against him, grip bruising against your back, one hand at your neck to guide your mouth upwards where his waits, tongue wet and wanting against your own.

Kyle's hips rut against yours, and time turns unintelligible, the world around you whittled down to it's basest form, touch and smell and sound – you're lost to all but the feel of him, thick, pulsing within you, the scent of your joined bodies and the rhythmic slap of skin against skin, of wetness, of desire leaking from your every cell and nerve ending. Your heart races and you lose sense – not enough, not enough, you need to be closer, need more of him, all that he'll give you, you will take and more.

When you lick into his mouth and whisper those words, Kyle doesn't question it, and you think he might have planned as much anyway without your instruction –

You come once more with a loud gasp, so hard it leaves you boneless, a panting mess of skin and sweat on the floor and he follows you soon after, moaning into your mouth loudly as he finishes, pressing himself deep against you. Chest to chest, intertwined so close that in the hazy aftermath you're sure you've become one, you hold each other.

Breathing hard, you're slowly reeled back into your senses – aware of the sweat cooling on your skin, the hard flooring beneath you, the slick mess that smears between your thighs. There's an ache in your hips when you slowly lower your leg, and Kyle smothers a laugh against your neck when you wince, rubbing small circles against your hip as he pulls out.

Outside, the celebrations go on. You listen, lying there in the stillness of the garage with his chest beneath your head, to the music, to the muted sounds of camera shutters and post-race interviews, of teams dispersing and the pack-up that had begun long before the checkered flag had even been waved.

"You okay?" you whisper, and he shifts a little beneath you to hold you tighter.

"You mine?" he asks, instead of answering and you sigh, closing your eyes.

"Think I always have been, Garrick."

There's a ghost of a smile against your temple. You feel a breath skitter across your cheek, before his mouth presses there, too.

"Then I'm brilliant."

"And…" you're almost scared to ask, but you do anyway, pushing yourself up to look at him properly. "Silverstone? You're not..?"

His face tightens, briefly, and you take in that despair, try to search it for that vengeance that had so often followed it in those days. There is none to be found, but he shakes his head, a wry grin pulling at his mouth.

"I'll let him have this one," he murmurs, leaning up to kiss your jaw. "Give him something to cling to when I win Baku."

The mention of Niki's home race makes your eyebrows raise, and when he starts to laugh, you push his shoulder lightly. "You're such a bastard," you mutter half-heartedly. He just grins, and you point a finger at him. "Don't think I won't walk again if you ever pull the –"

He cuts you off with a raise of his palms, too smug to even feign contrition. "I don't need to," he says simply, conviction in the steadiness of his voice too overpowering to deny.

"He might've been on the podium, but who really won today? I told you, I'm better than him in every way." He stares at you, a silent blaze in the depths of his eyes. There, again, you find that single-minded focus, that prey drive that pins you in place, gooseflesh scattering across your arms. "Should I show you again?"

Slowly, you shake your head, even as desire begins to stir once more, pooling deep and low in your stomach. His lips twitch, and he brushes a hand over your back gently, knuckles skimming the curve of your spine to settle at its base.

“Did you forget, what I said in Miami?” he breathes out and your eyes flutter shut under the weight of his stare. Leaning in to press your face against his, you turn until you’re nosing at his cheek and it’s there you seek shelter. 

“I don’t make the same mistake twice.”

fin.

not gonna lie i've had this chapter done for months and was putting off the redrafting under various excuses but the day has come and it's here at last. i hope you've found some entertainment in this silly fic and enjoyed it!! it's been long enough since its conception that i feel like a completely different person to the me who started writing this – hopefully i did her vision justice!!

at its heart this is a very silly concept but it was very fun to write and be invested in – a lot more lighthearted than some of my other wips, and i hope the "y/n x ceo"-ness of this fic didn't put you off too much at times (sometimes this fic had me suspending my disbelief and the real life ick that i would get from a man acting this way to think.. hm..sometimes running it back with an ex can in fact be enriching and fun. sometimes.)

anyway. thank you for reading and sticking around if you're still here!! a billion thank you's to my dearest @sunnie-angel who listened to me blather on about this fic for so long and made the beautiful newsclipping above for it <3 thank you thank you thank you!!!

DEFINITIONS

GRID: the starting lineup of all 20 cars before the race begins

TELEMETRY DATA: Telemetry is the nervous system of modern F1, transmitting real-time information about speed, throttle position, brake pressure, gear selection, engine RPM, and dozens of other parameters back to the pit wall and team factories

STRAIGHT: A straight or stretch is a part of the race track in which the competitors travel in a straight line for any significant time, as opposed to a bend or curve.

SUSPENSION: The suspension makes sure the car can handle uneven surfaces; it dissipates the energy that is generated when traveling over undulations and ensures that the grip is spread correctly between the four tyres.

SAFETY CAR: A safety car, or a pace car, is a car that limits the speed of competing cars or motorcycles on a racetrack in the case of a caution period.

ONBOARD CAMERA: In motor racing, onboard cameras are often used to give a better perspective from the driver's point of view, whilst in films, these cameras are designed to increase the intensity and action of a specific scene

A week ahead of Imola. 

With Niki growing increasingly zealous about coming back from his disastrous finish in Miami, spending hours upon hours either in the race simulator or with his trainer, the pressure hasn’t been lost on you, either. You’ve considered everything from faking an illness, to calling in a family emergency that’ll call you away for at least the next few races, to cashing in on life debts you’re not even sure will hold up. 

As it had happened with Kyle, Niki’s touches begin to come more and more infrequently. Sex is not witheld with any sort of conscious thought or effort, but rather he spends so much time in the gym, or simulating races that he often slips into bed long after you’ve passed out, and rarely at the end of the day does he have any energy to do much else but get his required 9 hours of sleep. Breakfast, lunch and dinner are strictly portioned and controlled, and you mourn, briefly, the days where he might have stolen you away to get dessert well into the night. There is no room now for anything less than perfection, now that he’s thrown his hat in the ring, has shown the makings of someone potentially great.

You might mourn the loss more, if it didn’t bring such (guilty, guilty) relief that you will not have to bear his touch. His fall from the ether draws out, in you, a shameful, slow-simmering repulsion, a knee-jerk response that scalds him and you both the first time you tense under his fingers. Disinterest is not, you come to find, a temporary flaw, a fault in your wiring – not stress, not jet lag, not homesickness. You bite back the horrible truth: it is his hunger, his sole-mindedness, that never satiated desire to win and its resulting quick-drawn temper of which you fall victim to daily, it seems, that sours each and every touch.

The team’s social media admin, standing beside you outside the meeting room and scrolling through their social media feed – all racing related content – isn’t helping at all. The sound of your ex boyfriend’s voice makes you jolt in your seat, your heel screeching a little against the tile, and the boy looks up from his phone. Trying to calm your now racing heart, you offer him an apologetic smile, holding up your cup of now watered down coffee in explanation.

Satisfied, or perhaps not particularly interested in prodding you any further, he returns to his feed, thumb swiping away the video. From where you sit, you catch an upside-down glimpse of the man who’s been heavy on your mind as he disappears out of view. 

You’d chosen to leave the restaurant in Miami, after he’d let you leave the bathroom on shaky legs, managing to coax Niki into a car before Kyle had returned from the bathroom. Shoulders tensed the entire time as Niki had settled the bill, you’d turned your gaze over anxiously. As if he were a figment of your imagination to conjure himself up at the worst possible moment, you’d been spurred by the fear that he would appear at your elbow and smile at Niki, telling him through honeyed tones just what he’d said to you in the bathroom and just what you hadn’t done while he’d pressed himself against you and offered to make you come in no uncertain terms. 

He hadn’t, of course. Whether or not he actually would have dared to cause such a scene, you’d been unwilling to stick around and find out what would come of it. Niki had made no protest of his own at cutting the evening short, still sour about his defeat and in no mood to affect pleasantries. 

Still, for the favour he’d unknowingly done you in driving the getaway car, you’d been left to your own devices in the aftermath. What a scene, the two of you, you’d thought. Niki, slumping into the sheets to sleep off his misery and you, filing into the bathroom with a silent click of the door. Dishonest, disloyal, look at you. Hands rucking up the material of your skirt and sinking your teeth into your tongue that same moment your fingers breached your entrance. Fucking yourself to the thought of molten brown eyes and an unforgiving, sharp smile, coming so hard you’d smacked the back of your head on the wall. 

The composure you’d started the season with has quickly shown how brittle it really was to begin with. You’re coming apart at the seams more and more by the day, it seems, flinching from pixels and a disembodied voice now. Your skull throbs a little in disquiet. 

Noise filters into the hallway suddenly with the opening of the door to the meeting room. Both you and the social media admin rise to your feet, the knot in your chest tightening when Niki steps outside. He’s followed closely by Markus, the both of them sporting near identical frowns. When you open your mouth to say something, he continues past you without a second glance. 

Markus offers you a sidelong glance, faltering ever so slightly before the distance between him and Niki only continues to grow and he’s tugged after him by an invisible thread. He grimaces, instead, lifting a shoulder in a weak shrug and speeding up a little. 

The two of them round a corner in the facility. You’ve been here enough times to know where they’re likely headed, and that once you pick your feet up from where they’ve seemingly rooted themselves to the carpeted floor, it’s in the simulation room that you’ll find the two of them. Mouth dry, you pry your gaze away from the end of the hall to find the intern’s eyes on you. 

You don’t know what’s worse: that you’re hoping that he hadn’t caught it on his camera, or that if he did, it’ll be clear you didn’t know what you were going to say. But the pity in his eyes makes your skin crawl, a soft, uncomfortable understanding that makes your fingers curl. 

The smile you offer him before you push yourself forward in pursuit of Niki, lest you take out your wounded pride on the unsuspecting 18 year old, is wooden. 

Imola’s results bring Williams and 1-4-1 head to head, with the latter holding a tentative second place in the championship. Having been competing against the higher competing midfield teams thus far for the podium, both Niki and Markus’ finishes against their competition give the team a solid margin. It also, you realise with dread, pits them much closer to 1-4-1 and shifts the focus of their next few race strategies not just to keeping a podium spot, but on the offensive against the team standing between them and that constructors’ trophy. 

Your boyfriend climbs out of the car and pulls his helmet off to reveal a near manic grin. Sweat plasters his inky strands to his forehead, indents in the skin around his eyes and nose where the helmet had rested for the better part of the last couple hours. He and Markus collide as the other jumps from the chassis of his car, laughing wildly. 

Leaning against the barricade, you’re keenly aware of the bodies pressed against you. You’re shoulder to shoulder with the team’s various mechanics and strategists, someone’s chest is brushing against your back and you’re jolted a little every now and then by the undercurrent of excitement in the crowd. Cameramen skate along the barricade, around the cars, by the drivers as they hold their post-race interviews. Through it all, you have to swallow down the nausea that threatens to put a certifiable damper on the festivities. Pasting on the fakest smile you’ve ever worn in your life, you fix your eyes on the host of the post race interviews, some celebrity whose name you can’t remember. 

The champion sprays overhead. You remember the way Niki had sharply overtaken a driver around a tight corner. The smile on your face feels all the more brittle. 

You elect to depart from the festivities a little after midnight, knowing they’re only due to ramp up even more. Niki, drunken, manic, pouts when you kiss him goodbye but laughs uproariously with the rest of his entourage when you make a weak joke about needing your beauty sleep. 

“You guys have enough energy to make up for me, I promise,” you force out a giggle. The lipgloss you’d swiped on earlier has settled in a thick, tacky layer over your mouth over the past few hours in the crowded club, and you’re eager to return to the hotel room to scrub it off. Niki sighs loudly like a child but rears forward to smack a slobbery kiss to your mouth in goodbye. You press your hands resolutely to your sides, so that you don’t instinctively wipe your face and embarrass him in front of his team.

“Bye, baby,” he croons and the heat in the room is suddenly even more stifling, your face flaming when the guys around him burst into cackles, making drunken, kissy noises. Even Markus, usually the more level headed of the group, pitches his voice to mimic him. 

“Bye, baby!”

You raise a hand in goodbye over your shoulder as you exit the booth, exhaling heavily once you’re past the doors. The air outside is chilly, the breeze skittering over your bare arms.

For one moment, resting against a pillar outside the nightclub, you can almost pretend you’re back in the in between years. Your mid twenties had been good to you, once you’d managed to extricate the majority of yourself from the wreckage that had been your breakup. Those misspent years spent running around the world again, only this time it hadn’t been at the heels of someone else. Slinking out of the odd nightclub just in time for the sun to rise, eyes burning with exhaustion and arms in yours to ground you from floating away, light as a feather and prone to hysterical laughter. Warm, warm, warm. 

Even in your grief, in the wake of your unmaking, there had been hands to put you back together. A slow shift in the tides, your coming together didn’t happen overnight but bit by bit. In every city, under twilit skies and in crowds pushing through crosswalks – there had been meaning in that grief, in that mess.

Now, you’re closer to 30 than 18. The years have passed you by. For a moment, that time had been worth something. Listening to the disorder that spills out through the doors behind you, it feels like you’ve gone right back to the beginning. A boyfriend too drunk on his own ambition to remember your existence, except when he’s seeking out your affirmation or consolation; You, a willing, yet miserable, accessory to the goings on of a life deemed of more value than your own. 

What the hell were you doing?

You’re nearly six feet into your commiseration when the sound of wheels crunching over gravel in front of you flits into your consciousness. Still, you pay it no mind – you’ve wandered beyond the club’s entrance to wait for your car, a large, sweeping awning over a faux cobblestone driveway which serves as a makeshift smoking area. Patrons lean against the parapet overlooking the actual driveway, cigarettes clutched in nicotine stained fingers. Girls in glittery dresses titter amongst themselves, stumbling forward into the arms of their partner for the night with drunken smiles. 

A car horn beeping snags your attention and your head snaps over your shoulder towards the curb. Blue eyes meet yours from a rolled down window and your brows wrinkle, bemused.

“You look like you’re about to burn a hole in that wall,” Soap calls out from the driver’s seat.

“Does the Captain know you’re taking his wheels for a drive?” you retort, walking towards the car. He pretends to wince and it makes your lips twitch.

“Who’s going to tell him?” he challenges and you let out a quiet laugh, nodding. Fair enough. “You need a ride?”

You shake your head. “I’m waiting on one. Thanks, though.”

He regards you with a scrutinising look, eyebrows furrowing like he’s reluctant to let it go. 

“Sure you’re okay?” he says at last. It’s a sincere thing, his voice lowered, stripped of all amusement. You go to tell him you are, when you find you can’t. For whatever reason it is, you find your tongue weighed down as if it refuses to lie. Perhaps you’ve run out of untruths.

“Just needed a break,” you say quietly, when you manage to find your voice. The smile you conjure up is twisted, an unhappy thing. “I don’t think I’m cut out for the partying as much, anymore.”

“Well, sure,” he agrees. “Not much of a partier these days, myself.”

You let out a tremulous sigh, unsure whether you’re about to laugh or cry. “Yeah?”

He nods, rolling his eyes. “Getting too old for it.”

“As if,” you murmur. “What’re you doing out at this hour if you’re so old, anyway?”

Soap grins like that’s a secret he’s unwilling to divulge. “Can’t a man go for a drive without being interrogated? Insomnia’s a common symptom of old age, lovely, you know.”

“Grand theft auto on that list of symptoms, too?” You ask and he barks out a laugh. 

“Touché,” he concedes. Then, he sighs a little. “Be honest with you, it’s not all that interesting – think Cap and I switched keys today. I only realised when I went to grab them and I think he’d’ve had my head if I woke up him up.”

“You’re right,” you tell him, shifting your weight from one aching foot to the other. “That isn’t very interesting.”

He hums, looking over his shoulder as another car pulls up behind him and a gaggle of younger people climb out. One of the guys gives you a passing once-over and you wrinkle your nose up at it, looking back at Soap.

“Look, you sure you don’t want a ride back? It’s no bother, and..” he trails off. 

“What?” 

He shrugs. “You look like you could use a friend.”

A moment passes, and then another. You stand on the curb and pretend his words haven’t made your eyes water, and he pretends not to see it. A burst of noise expels out of the doors behind you. Pulling up the ride service on your phone, you cancel the car and reach for the handle in front of you.

It had been Johnny you’d spent most of your time with, back during those lost days. Friends had been a rare commodity, hard to find, harder still to keep when you’d been trotting all across the globe at the behest of a boyfriend. It seemed there were only so many girl’s nights and brunches you could fail to show up to before the invites started to peter out, only so much understanding that could be given before it became obvious that even when you were present – you weren’t, really. 

Too busy thinking about the next weekend away, too busy worrying about the boyfriend waiting back at your shared flat and whether come race time, he’d drive himself and a few others into a wall just to make sure his reign remained uncontested. Even sitting in pit lane, you bore the weight of a championship on your shoulders as equally as Kyle. 

Johnny had been a friendship born of proximity. Weekend in and out, you’d share the garage space, sharing nervous looks whenever the roar of the spectators carried in through the doors – a certain sign your lover had employed a difficult, dangerous maneuver. What had started out as cordial nods and conversation only where necessary – “He’s over there,” he’d mumbled once, jerking his head to a corner of the garage, when you’d made your way in looking for Kyle – had bloomed into companionship that had seen you through the best and worst parts of your time with the team. 

Johnny Mactavish doesn’t offer you platitudes now as he drives you back to your hotel. Streetlamps wash over the car in rapid succession as he carves a path down the roads, silent save for the rumble of its engine beneath you. There’s a chance here, you realise, resting your head back against the seat, to come clean and offer your conscience some relief. To share your troubles with someone that had once been so dear. 

The words linger and rot on your tongue, growing sour with every breath you waste not confessing. Johnny doesn’t pry, much as he’d like to – fingers tapping against the steering wheel, blue eyes flickering over his shoulder at you every few seconds, curiosity etched on his face plain as day. You press your lips together to hide your amusement. 

Time, ever heavy, weighs your tongue. Far too much has happened, it’s been much too long. The love that remains – and it is a testament to how exhausted you are that you can admit it to yourself, there is feeling, still, for that chapter of your life and its characters – burns low and steady; it isn’t enough to sustain you. 

Still, you try to warm yourself at its hands. A temporary comfort. You pretend, for the last few minutes it takes to drive up to your hotel, that there is nothing else to this but a friend dropping you off. That this friendship had never been splintered, that what had caused its fracture never occurred – you ignore wishes it had endured, simply erasing its occurrence outright – and that you’d had the privilege of growing alongside your friend. Johnny had been bare faced the first time you’d met him. Now, you eye the shadow of his beard, the wrinkles by his eyes and the slivers of grey you spot in the dim light. 

When you get out of the car, there is a different heaviness settling in your stomach. When did you grow up?

“Hey,” Johnny says, when you reach for the door handle. You look back and he smiles, a serious, grim thing. “It’ll be okay.”

Oddly enough, you believe him.

Monaco passes by in a blur. The sights are too achingly familiar, the cobblestone and smell of diesel that carries over the harbour, the doors that open to a balcony overlooking the city – it’s nauseating. You spend the better part of the weekend lying in the dark of your hotel room. Cold sheets, curtains pulled tight to shut out the sunlight, eyes closed and pretending the stuffiness in your nose is a result of exhaustion and not the overwhelming haunting of years past – too much travelling, you’d told Niki, who’d barely questioned you after confirming you’d still be there on race day to watch him clinch his next win. 

Next door, the 1-4-1 garage teems with an energy that seems to spill out into the rest of the pits, invisible fingers curling, beckoning you almost. You grapple with your own control. Sunglasses even though the day had been overcast, always accompanied, gaze straight ahead of you. If you let yourself wander – thoughts, eyes, feet – you’d never come back. 

Niki does not win. You lie next to him that night remembering another life, wondering if the hotel had fixed the dent in the wall from where you’d slammed the door open in your haste to get inside. 

Not for the first time this weekend, your eyes water and you bite back a sob. Desire and guilt rarely come separately these days, and as your hand slips beneath the waistband of your shorts it flays you open.

In Barcelona, in your haste to douse the heat that swallows you after you accidentally look over at the 1-4-1 garage during practice, you nearly fall headfirst into the hotel swimming pool. Gripping the tiled edge with trembling hands and staring at the rippling reflection of your panicked face, you almost wish you had – if only to wash away the phantom trace of a heated gaze you can’t sever. 

Williams pulls off a 2-3 that makes up for Monaco. Niki is ecstatic. You mention to his manager that you’re not feeling well and take a car back to the hotel. When he doesn’t ask after you except when he comes in later that night as you feign sleep, you aren’t sure whether to be relieved or devastated. 

Canada. 

You cross through the paddock and nearly twist your ankle when a shout draws your attention to the 1-4-1 garage, where a pair of smug brown eyes are already locked on you. Kyle, with his suit half zipped and hanging around his waist, tilts his head inquisitively, brows quirked thoughtfully. Ready to admit it, yet? 

The sneer you pull at him isn’t your classiest moment, but it makes him snicker and turn to head back into the garage. 

Spitefully, you’re glad when a suspension failure in the last turn of the last lap causes him to lose out on the podium he’d been maintaining all day, managing somehow to cross the finish line before retiring the car in parc fermé. His face is taut when he climbs out of the car, lips pressed thinly together even as he congratulates the rookie who’d sped past him. The boy beams, flushed from the attention and exhaustion, and both your gazes follow Kyle as the man disappears into the garage.

Austria – or, an interlude. 

There is a tense undercurrent to the buzz within the grounds of Redbull Ring. Everyone stands a bit straighter, moves tentatively, gaze sharp and assessing; not only in preparation for this weekend, but the next to come. The Austrian Grand Prix has not yet closed but already all eyes look forward. Across the continent, across the ocean.

Silverstone. Famed, holder of fates. Shrouded in her ever present gloom, you hear her call, feel the pulse of anticipation in your throat. The siren song of a home race never loses its allure, its seductive glamour. To race under a flag was one thing. To hear the anthem of one’s homeland atop the podium, you imagined, was intoxicating. To do it on home soil, amongst your countrymen, cheered on in front of your family and friends – that was something else entirely. 

Near half the grid, across teams and drivers, had their roots in the United Kingdom. Niki’s own team, Williams, would be gunning even harder for a win next weekend. And though you strived not to think of him, it was hard to avoid associating Silverstone with Kyle. For someone like him, as proud of his home as one could be, so stubbornly committed to excellence, it had meant another set of stakes to an already high pressure job. Failure had never been, and could never be, an option. 

The last near decade at Silverstone had seen consecutive first place finishes from him – even all these years, you’d been unable to shut yourself off from the reach of that news. Champion of the fucking world, that.

In the paddock, you ferry back and forth with hopes of finding something to do. Listless, teetering on a precipice, your body stays tense as if in wait for a blow. Summer sunlight tickles the back of your neck, on the pleasant side of warm and accompanied by a gentle breeze. Still, your palms are clammy. 

The Williams staff had all but banished you after Niki had snapped at one of his engineers earlier, his manager ushering you away with a tight smile and gentle suggestion to get yourself a drink upstairs in hospitality. In polite terms, fuck off before you get reamed out, too.

Now, you stand just off the main path carving through the paddock, trying to fan out the heat in your face. Motorsport fans and businessmen alike mill through the area, lanyards proudly slung around flushed necks. The odd camera crew rushes through, teenagers clad in bright reds and orange pose for photos in front of the hospitality suites. What most of them wouldn’t give, you think, to be in your position. And yet you find yourself a bit sick of it all.

By the time the clock draws closer to race-time, you’re sure there’s a dark cloud following you. Re-entering the Williams motorhome, you make eye contact with Niki briefly. He’s already in his suit, standing off to the side with his strategist. Just as he grimaces in what you think might be an apology (perhaps the poorest one you’ve ever received from him) you turn away, ascending the stairs to the hospitality suite instead of heading deeper into the garage. 

Accepting a drink from one of the hospitality staff, you make your way to an empty barstool. Beside you, two women giggle in low tones about meeting one of the other drivers on the grid. Another couple nearby argue in tight, controlled whispers, something about not getting a good photo that makes you snicker quietly as you bring your drink to your mouth. 

The noise in the room gradually cedes to a low buzz, collectively aware of the time as the drivers begin to climb into their cars. You watch Niki and Markus walk out in tandem, parting ways with a clap of their hands. The cameras come close up on the car expected to start in pole today – Alex Keller offers a small wave, helmet covered head tipping forward in a nod of acknowledgement. 

“And that’s our polesitter for the Austrian Grand Prix, Alex Keller. Amazing work from him and his team yesterday to cinch that spot ahead of the Ferraris – 1-4-1 have been performing sensationally well this season, don’t you think so, Yulisa?”

“Are you surprised, Jude? Kyle Garrick’s been breaking records since he debuted. Course Keller’s going to give it his all with a world champion as his seatmate.”

“What was that, some 10 years ago now? Time flies, doesn’t it? Only, he was wearing very different colours back then, wasn’t he?”

“That’s right, Jude. Motorsport fans will remember that earlier last year, Garrick broke the news that he wouldn’t be renewing his – near decade long, might I add – contract with Redbull to sign on with newer, British based team 1-4-1.”

“Imagine being a fly on the wall for that meeting. Didn’t he poach one of their strategists, too?”

“Poach is such a strong word, Jude. But the current team principal of 1-4-1, John Price, did also leave with him.”

“Bet Redbull are regretting that decision now.”

“Ha, wouldn’t you?”

The cameras pan to the pit wall, where the man in question sits in front of the various screens, arms crossed and brows pulled low. Indigo headphones cover his  ears and he resolutely avoids looking at the camera, instead turning to one of the strategists by his side to confer with him. 

In the years since you’d last met him, he’s since grown a thick shoebrush moustache that covers his upper lip, mutton chops equally as dense. It places him a little beyond his late 30s, you think to yourself with a giggle, though you find it suits the seriousness he’s always carried with him, ascetic and unforgiving. The camera offers you a clear view of his profile, blue eyes glaring down a strong nose at the controls in front of him.

In the next second, the commentators move to another topic and the cameras flip to the track again. One of the girls next to you boos and her friend shushes her, giggling. You have to hide your grin behind your hand, pressing your fingers against your lips as if to stamp out the smile. 

The track begins to clear, staff moving back into the pits in time for the formation lap. Despite yourself, you sit up a little straighter, leaning forward to watch the lights begin to go out one by one. Keller leads the caravan of cars, tyres turning left and right to carry him in a zig zag path through the track. 

The commentators keep up a steady stream of conversation through the formation lap, crying out with some dismay when one of the younger rookies has to retire his car. You watch as the boy sits in the car, visor pulled firmly down to shield his eyes from the prying lens of the camera, which is eager to catch and broadcast a glimpse of his despair. 

But there’s little time to dwell on his misfortune as the rest of the drivers begin to line up on the starting grid, cars pulling up to their markers. The air in the suite almost crackles with electricity as the lights glow and begin to count down. Any conversation to be had is muffled under the sounds coming from the speaker. 

3…2…1…

“It’s lights out and away we go for the 2025 Austrian Grand Prix!”

Beyond the minor disruption of the formation lap, you almost fool yourself into complacency when the race begins with little to no fanfare. There are a few clean overtakes in the lower positions that you only get a glimpse of when they zip past your viewing spot, some turns made too hard that produce sparks and some minor debris. But nothing major – and yet it is in the relief that, of course, it all inevitably breaks apart.

“We’re heading to our last lap and that’s Landau and Rousseau in the battle for fifth, just past Turn 2 and into 3. So far Landau’s managed to defend that position but Rousseau’s not giving up yet and I think we can see here he might be attempting to overtake – OH! THEY’VE STRUCK THE WALL!”

You sit up, heart in your throat as on screen Niki’s car, a few breaths ahead of Rousseau’s, jerks suddenly to the left and slams the other car viciously into the wall. The crowd around you gasps and your ears begin to ring as they cut to the onboard camera.

Rousseau’s view turns your stomach, even though it’s clear he’s okay. Niki’s left front wing is completely demolished, the tyre twisting upward and wobbling from the impact. His car rests in front of Rousseau’s angled to cut him off from the rest of the track, the latter’s car halfway through the barrier lining the side of the track. 

“What the fuck? What the fuck!” Rousseau bellows into the comms. “What was that idiot thinking? Are you fucking kidding me?”

With only a lap remaining of the race and the degree of damage to both cars, you don’t need to be told they won’t finish the race. You’re already pushing yourself off your seat and heading for the stairs, hoping the camera crew in the suite haven’t already caught your growing upset on camera. 

You completely miss the last lap of the race as you make your way into the garage, standing next to one of the engineers with your arms crossed tightly in front of you. The screens downstairs are smaller but you pay them no mind, waiting instead for your boyfriend. He arrives as the U.K.’s national anthem begins to play over the speakers outside, the sound filtering in over the roar of the crowds waiting in parc ferme and beyond the gates, where they’ve been allowed to enter the track. 

Sweat lines Niki’s brow and he looks downright thunderous. When he catches sight of you, his expression only blackens further and he shoulders his way past his team, stomping further into the garage and veering off to an alcove that–mostly–offers you some privacy. 

“What the hell was that?” you demand. Immediately, you know you’ve chosen the wrong approach. Already in a foul mood, your boyfriend doesn’t take well to being chastised. His lip curls derisively and you feel the hair on your arms stand up, distilled heat prickling the back of your neck. 

“I’m not in the mood,” he says firmly, trying to shut it down. His eyes flicker over your shoulder apprehensively, and you know he’s worrying about the appearance of a media crew member, worrying about getting caught on camera being chewed out. Even if the stewards rule that his behaviour on the track is just a racing incident and choose not to penalise him, he has to be aware that it’s a bad look. 

“I don’t give a fuck, I want an explanation for what you just did out there. Explain it to me.”

Silence. You let out a brittle laugh. “Okay,” you nod. “Maybe I’ll tell you, because from where I was sitting, it looked like you deliberately pushed him into the fucking wall so he wouldn’t steal your position. Niki – seriously, are you crazy?”

His nostrils flare at that, eyes flashing. “You’re overreacting.”

“No, you know what, you don’t get to tell me that,” you spit, fingers curling into your fists. “I’ve been so patient with you these last few months. I thought, you know what, he’s just going through a phase, maybe work is getting to him, but the truth is you’ve been completely out of line for ages now and today just takes the cake! How could you be so reckless?”

And for a moment – just a single, brief moment – you blink and it isn’t Niki you see standing in front of you but rather someone else, narrowed toffee eyes and brown skin gleaming with perspiration. 21 year old Kyle Garrick flashes violently before your eyes and your breath catches in your throat, before Niki replaces him again.

“You don’t get it, you’ll never get it,” he argues, trying – failing – to keep his voice low. If they hadn’t heard you before, the tens of people packed into the garage space definitely could now. “This is my job – what was I supposed to do? Let him overtake me?”

“Maybe not throw him into the fucking wall, for one!” you holler shrilly. He wipes a hand over his face, throwing an exhausted look upwards and your throat tightens. 

“Mistake,” he mutters under his breath and you narrow your eyes.

“Excuse me?” He lifts his head to meet you head on and repeats himself,

“I said it was a mistake. Bringing you here,” he clarifies, angry. “You don’t even want to be here, be honest. You just – you don’t get it, at all.”

Your mouth drops open in affront. “Are you serious? I’ve been part of this way before you came into my life. And even if I didn’t know the first thing about racing, it doesn’t take a genius to tell that if the only way you can win is by playing dirty, you shouldn’t be playing at all.”

He glowers and you step forward until you’re in his space. He smells like diesel oil and sweat, hair matted to his scalp. “You’ve let this job consume you and-”

“And what.”

“I can’t follow you into it,” you say, finally, meeting his gaze steadily. Cold. You shake your head. “I won’t.”

Niki’s silent. You exhale noisily, stepping away from him and exiting the alcove. With a final glance over your shoulder, you call out your parting words.

“Figure out what it is you really want, because I’m not going to stick around while you pretend you’ve got your priorities in order.”

When you exit, it becomes clear that they've finished crowning the winners – a single look overhead finds, of course, Kyle Garrick's gleaming face on the broadcast at the top of the podium. Champagne and sweat roll down the slopes of his face, soundless laughter creasing his expression as he flinches away from the spray.

The paddock club is sparse in its offer of hiding spots. You're unwilling to ride back to the hotel with Niki, so soon after you've had it out with him and you rather figure he feels the same. Racegoers mill about, happy to close out the festivities of the day with their own celebratory drinks in the comfort of the paddock.

For a while, you walk around the paddock. You keep your gaze fixed strictly ahead of you in an attempt to discourage any conversation, trying your best to look busy. It's difficult to keep your disappointment hidden and you can only hope nobody takes a photo of you stewing – that would be the icing on the cake, for Niki to have ended the day so disastrously and photos of you, so obviously angry afterwards, to come out.

When you've taken a lap around the paddock, it's the Williams motorhome you end up in front of. Staring up at the structure, you bite your lip, wondering whether you can find the courage to enter, whether you've got the grace to make up with Niki right now.

Conversation spilling out from next door draws your attention and you watch a crowd of 1-4-1 mechanics spill out from the garage. Chancing one more look at the blue motorhome in front of you, you turn the other way.

Nobody says anything to you when you enter. The place is mostly cleared out by now, with only one or two people still lingering about in the hallway you enter through. They look up briefly, but their gaze slides over you like water soon enough. Heading deeper and deeper into the garage feels rather like wading into the belly of the beast – you've very little idea what you're doing, or how you expect to defend yourself if asked.

The actual garage itself has emptied out, the scene before you as still as if time had held its breath. You wander over, fingers hovering over the slight clutter on the toolbenches, the powered down screens that don't emit even the slightest hum of electricity. It's surreal, to stand in the middle of this, usually a hub of activity, ever-consistent, now stifled.

"Someone could report you for gathering intelligence, you know."

The sound makes you startle, your hand flying out to catch itself against a table. A wrench goes flying, clattering loudly against the ground and you whirl around to face the interruptor.

Kyle stands in the mouth of the hallway, staring at you discerningly.

"I-" you stammer, "I was just – looking for Soap."

"Ah," he says, nodding like he doesn't quite believe your poorly sold lie.

He's freshly showered now, changed into a loose t-shirt and a pair of faded jeans. As he approaches, he picks the wrench up off the floor and places it gingerly on the workbench, where he pauses, only a few steps away from you. He runs a nail over the surface, scratching lightly at something you can't see. His head is turned down, away from you, but you can see the beginnings of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth before it smooths over and he looks up.

"He left," Kyle informs you, honey eyes unnervingly on your face.

"Oh."

"Oh," he repeats, and you bristle at the smug undercurrent to his whisper. He looks over your shoulder, looks around like he's expecting to find something. "Shouldn't you be consoling your little boyfriend?"

And just like that, he shatters the tense snare he's trapped you in. Kyle doesn't wait for you to reply, shaking his head and clicking his tongue admonishingly. "Shirking your wag duties, huh? Can't say I'm surprised."

It sets something off in you, sparks the dying embers of your still flickering annoyance.

"You would sympathise with him, wouldn't you," you snap. "Expecting to be babied after acting like a complete moron out there. Figures that's what you'd bond over."

He holds his hands up, laughing a little. Mildly, he says, "Strike a nerve, did I?"

You bare your teeth.

"Don't act like you're any better than him. That out there-" you point in the direction of the track, "-was light work compared to the shit you used to pull, don't tell me you've forgotten now."

"I haven't." Kyle's lips press together thinly in admittance.

"Then?" You lift your chin upwards. "Why are you even standing here. Don't you have a win to celebrate?"

"Maybe I like your company better," he suggests quietly. Then, he smiles, fond, just a touch mischievous. "Not quite the way I'd prefer to celebrate with you, but it's endearing, seeing you this worked up."

You blink, a little flustered. "Come off it," you scoff, looking away. "You're just happy you've got one over on him for once."

"Hey." His brow dips, then, voice lowering seriously. "I could've been better about a lot of things, but I've never once been dishonest with you about wanting you."

After a beat, you swallow and quiver out, "It doesn't matter. I'm with Niki. You know that."

He nods.

"I know that. I also know I'd be driving a lot more carefully if I had you waiting for me at the end of it all."

You can't help but sigh at this. "You did, once. Have me. And you nearly caused a pile up in the end anyway, didn't you? Or have you forgotten?"

Something almost like regret etches itself across the planes of his face. His throat bobs, and he looks down.

"Will you hold that over my head forever?" he asks, quiet.

You look away, trailing your gaze once more over the blank monitors. "I'll hold it over your head as long as you try to act like you're any better than Niki in that aspect."

At this, he smiles, amused. "I am, though." You raise your brows but he continues. "In every way – don't laugh at me, I'm being serious."

Despite his scolding, you can't help it. "I'll believe it when I see it," you tell him.

But he's determined to press this into you.

"I drive better," he says, seriously. "I know you better. I love you better."

Kyle steps forward with every sentence that falls from his lips, until he's closed the distance and you're backed up against the workbench.

"I don't need to play dirty to win," he murmurs, looking down at you. "Not anymore. That has to count for something."

There's a quiet plea in there that your calcified heart is too hardened to accept – yet. You purse your lips, unhappy.

"It's too late."

"Is it?" he questions.

You're unable to answer, staring up at him with your fingers clenching into fists against the workbench. He could close the distance between you right now, mere centimetres reduced to nothing in a matter of moments, standing like this. All he'd have to do is lean forward, and he'd be kissing you. It's been years since you last touched him, really touched him. It would just take a single breath.

But he only stares down at you a moment longer, gaze heavy, before he steps away and leaves you in the dark cavern of the 1-4-1 garage.

You're ashamed to say you do not immediately leave the garage, once he does. Don't take it as a sign to scurry back into the arms of the boyfriend you've been touting all season as a shield whenever your interactions veer too close to breaching some invisible line of propriety. The truth tastes bitter when you admit it to yourself; propriety had flown out the window the moment you'd allowed Kyle to approach you in Suzuka.

There'd been no chance of maintaining civility without you on his arm – and part of you had known this. Yet you'd gone along with it, calling his bluff knowing it wasn't a farce, if only to see what he'd do, to gauge the extent of what he'd do to gain you back. Like running your tongue over a wound, your injured pride demanded it.

In the dark of that carport, you listen to his footsteps echo until they fade away. And after, you wait, to see if he'll come back.

He does not – you know he won't, and yet you wait anyway, unable to move from where he's struck you down.

Is it? Is it over now? Is it too late?

A year ago, you would've laughed at the thought, that there could be anything left unfinished about your relationship with Kyle. The great love of your life, once. That, you would allow him. That he'd held your heart in his hands for a great deal of your youth, you could not deny. But as far as you were concerned, it had ended the moment he'd let you walk out of that hotel. Perhaps it had been long over before that.

Too late, too late.

Against all reason, memory summons each race of the calendar forth – I don't need to play dirty to win – and sure enough. For all you'd held against Kyle this year, his inability to let this die, his unending pursuit, the hunger in his eyes – not once do you recall watching him pull the kind of stunts that had driven you out the door.

The kind of stunts your boyfriend had been pulling lately.

It settles bitter on your tongue as you walk through the door. Niki is waiting in the hotel room when you let yourself in, features drawn into a morose expression that in the afterglow of a long day, strikes you as looking oddly hollow.

He draws you into a tight embrace, one you step into with some hesitation, weary where your forehead presses against his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," he sighs, pressing a kiss to your head. "I don't like fighting with you."

You close your eyes, cheek warmed by the heat of your breath, diffusing through his shirt. "I just feel like winning means more to you than I do, sometimes," you confess quietly.

These are words you've said before, to a different love, in a different life. The reception they get is the same and perhaps it's in that brief silence, that ugly intake of breath, tensing muscles beneath your cheek, that you know, no matter what eventually follows when Niki recovers – it is doomed to follow the fate of that which came before it.

author's note:

we're really in it now, guys. also - i know i have i the power to make this canon but in my heart there's an au of this au or a cutscene where soap is their third. i know it in my heart guys…they've hooked up at least once.

posting this after the fog that ausgp2026 had me in... i hate to use this word because it is so incel-y but there's something about waking up at 4:30 in the morning (?????!!!!!!) to get up and go see a bunch of rich ass millionaire billionaire men who do NAWT gaf about me or anything drive fast cars for two hours that makes me feel like a CUCK.

not my first rodeo but with every year i get GA tickets to the grand prix it just feels so embarrassing. like look at me i lost the ticketmaster war and couldn't get seats so i have to scramble to find a nice spot on the grass and get cooked by the sun for 5 hours waiting for the race to start because it's so packed!!! RAGHHH

ok rant over it was actually fun (<- masochist ?) (apart from watching national pride and joy and the grid's resident australian not even get to start... oh that is actually so sickening and i am CERTAIN l*ndo and z*k brown had something to do with that)

i will forever ride the brief high of watching a ferrari overtake and lead the race before their strategists inevitably fucked it up.

i wish i'd been able to post this yesterday in honour of race sunday but alas. i was at the race sunday ! shoutout to jensen button whose facecard momentarily pulled me out of the depths of my despair after the race.

anyway. holy yap over, definitions below:

SIMULATION ROOM: F1 simulators are designed to replicate the thrilling experience of driving a Formula 1 car. I'm pretty sure/assuming they have simulation rooms in most team headquarters

SUSPENSION FAILURE: usually indicates a failure in the system's ability to maintain ride height, often caused by leaking airbags, a worn-out compressor, a clogged air dryer, or faulty height sensors. "A vehicle with a bad suspension may pull to one side or drift when driving, even when you're steering straight. This can make it challenging to maintain control and stay in your lane. Tie rod ends are a common cause."

Kyle is seven years old the first time he lowers himself into the seat of a kart. A birthday party he hadn’t even wanted to go to, a mother who’d pressed him to go now watching from the sidelines with worry lining her brow; it’s pure luck that throws him onto the course of his fate. 

The smell of burnt rubber makes his nose wrinkle but the sound – oh, the sound. The engines, the way the karts seem to go faster than anything he has ever seen, whipping past him so fast it makes the hem of his shirt flutter. Seven years old and nearly pushing the barricade down to get a better look as the karts go by –

“Senna in the making, eh, mate?” one of the employees at the range had said, when he’d climbed out of the kart, whistling low when he’d presented the scores. The birthday boy – a classmate of his who he cannot recall for neither love nor money, only a blur of blonde hair and a fading, grating voice that had been prone to tears – had not been happy at losing out. But Kyle had stared at the slip of paper given to him with his heart in his throat, the thrum of a phantom engine buzzing through him.

– It is the beginning of it all.

He learns about the greats, goes to the library and checks out as many books on racing that the librarian will let him. His aunt is the one that finances it when he expresses a desire to take it up, older than his mother with no kids of her own to dote on, sweet on her only nephew who throws himself at her knees with a delighted yell when they break the news to him. 

Senna in the making, perhaps – Kyle finds a hero in Schumacher instead. He remembers the early days, pressing his nose to the screen of his mother’s television set and watching the German driver score win after win that only stokes the embers of the rapidly growing desire within himself. 

A winner.

When they ask him at school what he wants to be, amongst the policemen and firefighters, the ballerinas and pilots –

Kyle brings home the piece of paper with its accompanying picture, scrawled by a steady hand: a car, all to be seen of its driver poking out from the top, covered by a colourful helmet. 

When I grow up, I want to be:  A Formula One Driver

It is a life he claws his way to. Karting brings competitions and as it turns out – Kyle is good. He wins a lot. He loses, sometimes. The shock of it never deters him, only igniting his desire to come back better. Mostly, he wins. Seven, eight, nine, ten – through it all, this remains his steady constant, his faithful companion. 

This life opens many doors for him. His mother is, understandably, nervous. Despite the years he’s been at this, it is inarguable that he has chosen a profession with no guarantee of safety. There is little comfort in the thought of her only son racing fast cars down straights, turning sharp around corners while pushing wheel to wheel with another metal beast, his wellbeing contingent on flaky agents – the track, the weather, his ability to react in time – it’s pure luck that keeps him from being flattened beneath the shell of his car.

If it isn’t the car that will claim him, just out of sight, there awaits the danger of vices. 

Kyle likes the cameraderie that flows when his team are celebrating a win but he finds himself stepping out earlier than the others tend to. There’s a quality to the world he finds preferable when he’s wandering the streets of whichever city it is he’s found himself in that week. He watches the streetlights soften, listens to the city chatter, casts his eyes up to the sky. 

He believes himself unscathed – that grip which has taken ahold of all the drivers in some shape or form, it remains a stranger to him. Sadecki favours his smokes, tobacco and tar clinging heavy to every item of clothing the man wears. Binotto washes his disappointment down with spirits, vodka sharp on his breath in the mornings when they sit through the briefings. 

Kyle smokes, occasionally. He drinks in moderation – he’s uninterested in getting caught by the media and painted as sloppy, has no eagerness to partake in some of the drinking games that the crew propose on their nights off. He’s the one that has to drive the car, after all. If he wants to win, he’s got to give it everything he’s got. 

And drive he does. Gloves gripping the steering wheel, fabric squeaking beneath his fingers as it tightens over his knuckles, his visor down to shield his eyes from dust and gravel. 

But as weaknesses are wont to do, his are inconspicuous in their reveal, subtle in the way they slip his blinders on. So sharp to all that everyone else does, he is ignorant and unassuming, all too open and vulnerable. The perfect host for vice to sink its teeth into him. Sin, pure and unadulterated, comes to him in the kiss of victory; a black and white checkered flag, the thrum of the engine beneath him as it carries him over the finish line, the crackle of a radio and his engineer in his ear –

P-fucking-1, baby.

He’s weakened by the end of the race, significantly lighter than when he’d stepped into the car, but victory throws all of his senses into sharp relief. Colours brighter to his eyes, lights winking. He tastes the metal in the air, keenly aware of the heaviness of his tongue in his mouth. 

Binotto takes a single look at him from across the cooldown room, lounging against the chair with his bottle pressed to his mouth, and scoffs knowingly. 

“First win,” the older man murmurs. Kyle drags his gaze to him, sluggish, like he’s moving through water. He blows out a breath, shaking his head, a faraway look settling over his eyes. “Tell you this much, there’s nothing like it.”

Alvarez, beside him, looks up and laughs in agreement. “Make the most of it, rookie. There’s no going back from this.”

Prophet of ill tiding, Binotto’s next words slither over the embankment Kyle has cocooned himself beneath, riding out the best high of his life – “‘S all downhill from here, mate.”

Binotto does not sign on to any teams after the season and his contract concludes, and the words lay stagnating in the thick of Kyle’s memory, buried beneath the recesses of every podium and win he goes on to achieve. 

The champagne pours, lights burst in a dazzling display of blue and gold stars, he stands atop a podium and the adrenaline in his veins is a feeling like no other. Kyle’s bummed a dart from a stranger before, watched a mate trip on an acid tab, ecstasy blowing his pupils wide, all with a detached curiosity. He imagines it must’ve felt something like this, sweat soaking through his suit, his heart hummingbird quick in its cage and his head spinning. 

You stand in the crowd below, gazing up at him with winking lights in your gaze and he feels it then, really feels it. This is what he was made for. The two of you are scheduled for an early flight in the morning but the celebrations continue well on into the night. Again, and again, and again, he pulls sounds from you until you’re incapable of little else but silent screams, lips parting in mute ecstasy. It’s downright fucking filthy – he feels like pure, uncontrolled energy, a maelstrom of light and electricity having escaped its vessel.

By the time he lays back against the mattress, the sheets are soaked through and the sunlight is creeping through the curtains. Your body lays stretched out beside him, sweaty, sated, a dazed part of your lips and eyelashes fluttering against your cheekbones. He is keenly aware of every inch of his body, aching muscles that twinge with each breath, the pulse of his heart against his chest and the blood that rushes in his ears.

When you ask him, then, whether he’d grown used to it, he opens his mouth to explain. But the words fall short. He can only look at you and shake his head.

Standing on that elevated podium, runners-up on either side, the same scene no matter where they were. Azerbaijan, Monaco, Singapore. Victory tastes just as sweet. Like sweat and champagne, the press of a beautiful woman against him and the clutch of your hips at the end of the night. 

He looks around him, at the other drivers around him. Well out of his rookie season, he knows he isn’t new and shiny anymore, that he’ll fall to the wayside soon if he isn’t careful. The threat of it scares him stiff: becoming just another decorated driver fated to never rise beyond the bottom of the grid haunts him. He finds that when he’s known what it’s like to be a winner – records broken, championships collected, pure, unimitable skill – he’ll do anything to stay that way.

So maybe he plays dirty, sometimes. He knows what these guys have to lose, knows how to apply the pressure just right, set the cards up so they’ll fall exactly as he needs them to. Families, wives, children – the others can’t drive as they used to, with reckless abandon and toeing the lines of the rulebook. They’re slowed down, if only by a hair’s breadth. In this sport, every single moment counts, down to the tiniest details. In the minutiae, that is where he strikes. What’s he got to lose? 

Maybe that’s why he doesn’t think about it before answering a reporter who asks him if he’s proposed to you – it’s just another rumour, speculation floated by tabloids struggling to gain traffic. He shuts it down with a frank, honest, “No, I’m not.”

There is no elaboration, nothing to bolster the foundation of his long-term relationship, exposed now to the rest of the world. You say very little then. Later, he’ll think that maybe that’s where it began to crumble.

The revelation that he does, indeed, have something to lose stuns him.

Your departure from his life throws him into a tailspin of the worst kind. Confusion and anger are his faithful friends, and he oscillates between the two. How could you go back on all that you’d promised each other? What had driven you to it? Had he been blind to the signs? He can’t break the loop, trapped in his ruthless desire to know why. 

Hadn’t you been happy?

He can’t make sense of it when you tell him tearfully, I love you, maybe too much. He arrives to the scene of your exit far too late; this isn’t impulse that drives you to pack your things and book a ticket back home, it’s a decision that you’ve made without him. The betrayal winds him – it is a betrayal, no matter how you spin it, sinking into the mattress and burying your head in your hands, weeping. 

“I want a life with you, outside of this,” you get out through hitched breaths, eyes wet and doleful. On the other side of the hotel room, he sits in the chair, staring hard at the contents of your open suitcase. 

He looks up at you. “You have one. We have that.”

“No.” You shake your head. “No, what we have is me following you around the world and watching you nearly kill yourself just to win another race.”

Kyle’s brows draw together incredulously. “What are you talking about?”

“You think I haven’t noticed?” you demand, fingers digging into your palms. The urge to reach out and stop you makes his own hands twitch. “You’re so caught up in winning, you don’t care about anything else. Do you know how many collisions you’ve barely walked out of lately, this season alone? You don’t care about us, you don’t care about anyone else on the grid, you don’t even care about yourself.”

He scoffs, defensive anger rising to the surface. “That’s not true.”

You bring a hand to your mouth, trembling, looking away for a moment before you exhale. Another shake of your head. The pit in his stomach is steadily deepening, a slow panic that blooms through him as he realises what’s happening. 

He’s prided himself on his ability to read other people. To anticipate their needs and actions. It keeps him sharp on the track. Where you’re concerned, he’s dialled it to eleven, fine-tuned it to a near sixth sense over the years. He knows you intimately, knows the map of your body, knows the meaning behind your every expression, your different smiles. He knows you better than he knows himself, it feels like, somedays. He’d thought he did..

For the first time, he doesn’t know what to do to fix this. It occurs to him that maybe you’re better at keeping things from him than he’d thought. 

“You’re going to kill yourself, for another metal cup,” you tell him dully. “And I won’t watch it, Kyle. I won’t. I love you….Maybe too much. Every weekend, I sit there in that garage wondering if this is it, whether today will be the day I watch you die. All I do is worry about you, and I’m tired.”

He doesn’t know what to say. “It’s my job. It’s always going to be risky.”

“Not like this!” you explode, voice pitching nervously. “You never used to drive like this. Don’t treat me like I’m stupid! How long have we been together? I know how you drive and you’ve never, not ever, been this reckless. You think you’ve got this under control but you don’t and you don’t want to admit that.”

He’s silent. You nod, like you’d expected this, and continue to stuff things into your suitcase. Not once do you look at him, but he can’t tear his gaze from you. Your hands are shaking as you zip it closed, shoulders hunched over, exhausted. He’s frozen, watching you gather the last of your things and leave your key to the room on the bedside table. Only then do you look at him, once, a stricken, troubled set to your mouth before you leave. 

Your exit from his life is quiet, so at odds with the way you’d arrived into it; the soft snick of a door and a silent goodbye. 

He can’t tell how long he sits in that chair, staring at the dip on the sheets where you’d sat. Minutes, hours, years could have passed, he remains rooted there.

This is a dream, he thinks, wishes, this is just a horrible dream and I’m going to wake up any moment now. 

But no matter how long he stays there, he does not wake up. His eyes burn, his body begins to grow stiff and the terrible dream continues on to be. You’re no longer here, you’ve gone and he’s alone in his hotel room. Five years come to an end in a matter of moments and he’s helpless as to how he’ll get himself out of this one. 

It’s Price that finds him, all but busting the door down when he doesn’t answer. Watery blue irises regard him thoughtfully, and Kyle, distantly, is grateful for the lack of pity. Price has always managed to level with him. Even in crisis, he’s no different.

“She left?”

He nods, silent.

“What you going to do?” There’s a direction behind the question. He needs to get his head on straight, needs to move. He can’t sit here and do nothing. Price watches him as he cycles through muddy thoughts and stumbles to a realisation. 

“I’m going to–” he breathes out, harshly, trying to expel the thought of your tearstained face and the sound of your suitcase wheeling across the room. “I’m going to fix this.”

You’re in a taxi halfway across the city when he leaves the hotel. You haven’t stopped sharing your location with him, likely too preoccupied with the more pressing parts of running away to consider it, something he finds himself thankful for as he gets into a car. His blood is rushing through his ears when the car comes to a stop outside the airport and he all but throws himself out. 

He shouldn’t be running in an airport, much less where there are about a thousand eyes on him. But Kyle pushes himself forward, sweat dripping down his brow despite the cool air fanning through the space. He makes to security blindly, muscle memory guiding him through the entry until he spots the large queue. He’s made his way through this airport so many times over the years, never once had he thought he’d be chasing after you, here.

He searches the crowd, heart in his throat. He’s going to fix this, it’ll be alright, but first he has to find you in the dense crowd. Over hats and colourful shirts and businessmen in charcoal suits –

There. Stood between a woman and her children, and an older boy, staring listlessly into the distance while the queue stalls.

His knees nearly give out with the relief and he staggers forward, calling your name. There’s a flash of light in his periphery, a murmur that goes up. He’s more focused on the way you startle, turning around in surprise as if to confirm you’ve heard right.

“Baby,” he breathes out and isn’t it a kick in the gut when he gets closer and sees the sticky trace of tears still lingering on your cheeks? “I’m sorry, alright? You’re right, I’ve been shit lately, I’m going to – I’m gonna fix it. I’m sorry.”

“Kyle,” you say tightly, eyes darting around and he leans forward to cradle your face in his palms. He watches how you flinch at the touch, eyes squeezing shut tightly, a tear slipping down your cheek. He catches it with his thumb, wiping it away. “We’re in public.”

“I don’t care,” he insists. “Let them look.”

“Go home,” you urge and he shakes his head.

“Not without you.”

Your face contracts at that, pained. Still, he pushes on.

“I’m not going without you,” he says, intently. Pleading. “I don’t want to be without you. We’re it, remember?”

“That’s not –” you stutter. Another shutter clicks loudly and you flinch at the sound. “Things have changed.”

“They don’t have to. Come home with me,” he implores. He pulls a hand away then, and rummages through his pocket. Your brow furrows and then your eyes widen when he pulls out a small box. He smiles, rueful. 

“I was, um, saving this for after the championship – after the season ended,” he amends, when he sees your face tighten. “But tonight…you’re right. I want a life with you, I’ve wanted a life with you since we were 18 and you talked me out of that stupid tattoo after my first win. It’s only ever going to be you. I’ll fix it, you’ll see, we’ll be alright. Just – come home with me.”

You stare at the ring in quiet astonishment and for a moment he thinks maybe there’s hope. It’s a beautiful thing, glittering as his hand trembles and the light catches on the precious gem. It’s the kind of ring you’d eyed whenever you passed jewellery stores, gaze passing over all the other gaudy options on display to catch on wistfully. 

The kind that you’d spoken about once, during one of those times when summer and the break from racing deepened into that gentle, liminal space in which he became near unable to distinguish where he ended and you began, truths free-falling from your lips like water without inhibition–those were his favourite moments, when you’d press under his arm and look up at him with those soft eyes, the kind of look that always came before you revealed a new part of yourself to him. All these years together and he was still discovering shades of you.

Hope flickers faintly in his chest, and it’s agony, waiting for you to answer. The pain nearly blinds him when you drag your stare up to look him with reproach in your eyes, beginning to shake your head.

“I can’t,” you whisper, as though you haven’t struck him through the chest. His fingers spasm around the open box, the diamond catching the light and sending a small shower of sparks into his vision, not unlike when he bottoms out during a race and the underside of the car drags painfully against the track. “You’re not being fair, Kyle. You don’t even – you don’t even want this, not really.”

“I’ve been holding onto this for the last six months, what do you mean I don’t want this?” his voice cracks.

“You’re not ready for this – don’t shake your head at me, you know I’m right,” you whisper sharply. “You’ve got one single commitment and it’s this job. There’s no room in your life for what a life together would bring and I –” 

Here, you break off sharply, looking away. So there is more to it, he thinks, bitterness brewing slow in his stomach.

“What,” he grinds out.

“So much of the last year has shown me that there’s no room for me in this life,” you say quietly. “I’m your girlfriend before I’m a person. I go where you do and it’s your name that everyone says when they talk about me. You win, and I’m meant to be another trophy for you to show off, you lose and people start pointing fingers, you won’t even look at me because you get so caught up in it. Sometimes I wonder if I even exist to you unless there’s a cup in your hand. I don’t know who I am, anymore, Kyle. I can’t remember the last time I did something for myself, by myself. This isn’t – we can’t keep going on like this.”

“We’ll fix it, then,” he tries, one last time, but you only let out a soft sniffle, shaking your head.

“I love you,” you tell him, eyes pooling with tears once more. He stands there, hands limp by his sides, blood roaring in his ears. “I love you so much. But we can’t go on like this anymore. It’s not – it isn’t healthy.”

This time, he’s the one that steps away. 

“I think you’re wrong,” he tells you, plainly, lowering his voice. “I think you’re wrong and I think maybe I’m the only one right now who believes in us, but if this is what you need to do, then fine.”

By now, the rest of the people in the crowd have begun to recognise who he is and more than half have their phones held up. He knows his publicist is going to be furious when the tabloids come out in the morning with this news. But he finds himself exhausted, too selfish to care. 

“Just know that with or without that championship, you were going to walk out with a ring on your finger,” he says, jaw ticking with the restraint it takes to keep his voice level, to keep himself from lunging at the guy whose phone is pointing directly at him while his world comes down around him. “I’ve been confused about a lot of things in my life but you – never. It’s always been you. It’s always going to be you.”

Your lips form the shape of his name and he steps away, clutching the velvet box in his hands, snapping it shut. Even with the noise of the airport, it seems to echo. 

In the years that have passed, he’s adjusted to your absence. The season had demanded his attention in the fresh aftermath of your breakup. He’d been grateful for the distraction, even if it had only half-managed to divert his thoughts from you. The silence in every hotel room had been deafening at first, the absence when he reached out in the mornings unstitching the hurt anew. 

Worse had been the off-season when, with little outside of training to fill his time, it had been much harder to ignore the pressing difference in his life. There’d been no lingering perfume to greet him in his London flat when he’d arrived. His coffee table had been absent of the memoir that had taken residence there over the last year, bookmarked halfway through and untouched. Gone were the coats and blouses that had hung in his wardrobe, gone was the toothbrush in his bathroom, the pots and tubes of skin products. Gone, gone, gone. 

It’s hard, when he turns at a function to whisper in an ear that is no longer turned to him. In fact, you’ve all but vanished, it seems. There are no whispers of your presence in any rooms he walks into, only lanyards from different agencies and always, always, somebody pressing for his attention. London is no maze, but you have hidden yourself away entirely from him. 

By and large, you are no longer someone he knows.

It doesn’t stop him from remembering. The years pass, the season turns over into itself and the trophies are doled out. He wins, he loses, he and Price take on a newer team – 1-4-1, of which Price assumes the position of team principal, no longer simply his chief engineer. He drops a few places in a championship, his winning streak is doused by a newer, better driver. Still, he remembers.

He can’t help it. He can’t. 

Over and over, he traces the memory of you. The curve of your mouth, the flicker of a smile, shy, secretive. The laugh he’d swallowed, one night on the terrace of your stay in Monaco, kissing you in the balmy air. The way you’d cut your hair when you were 18. The day he’d known for sure – it would be this, or it would be nothing. 

Running, rain soaked through the back streets and calling out for the orange cat that had slipped through the open door. A neighbour’s, temporarily your responsibility during their visit out of town. A single moment, a blur shooting through the crack in the door and between his legs. He’d been just a few months shy of 21, then, he thinks. 

An hour, you’d spent, calling for the thing, before the skies had opened up and the rain had started to pour. Light, at first, a mist drifting down before the drops had grown bigger and you’d been caught in the downpour. In an instant, he’d watched your clothes darken, water bleeding into every fiber until there wasn’t a centimetre of dry cotton on you. His own clothes had submitted to the same fate. Still, on you’d searched. 

Caught under a streetlight, he’d been struck by the sudden knowing – there wouldn’t ever be anything else like this, not with anyone else, not ever. 

And when a moment later you’d darted across the street, almost veering into the path of an oncoming car, to wrangle a sopping mess of orange fur, looking up at him with a relieved smile and the furball in your arms, that had settled it for him.

There would be no one else for him. Nobody else would do. He’s always been a believer that you have to work to get what you want and Kyle’s clawed his way to where he is, but this…there is something about it that feels preordained. You and him, this thing between you, it’s bigger than the both of you, far larger than he can ever comprehend. 

If there could be anything he could trust in to be certain, he would have said this. Sunday mornings on the off season spent intending to sleeping in but waking up early anyway, making breakfast and returning to you with fresh fruit he’d end up tasting on your tongue. Running out to get errands done and knowing no matter how far you wandered off, you’d eventually bump back into him again with a surprised giggle and your hands full of knick knacks he’d sigh at but ultimately agree would look good for the place. When you tell him you can’t go on any longer, he’ll admit there’s a moment where his faith wavers. It’s a loss he’d never once expected. 

But it’s only a moment, before he’s brought back to that day, that evening in the rain. He’s young, still, but the thought of a life without you makes him restless. It’s so deeply wrong, he knows at once it can’t be true forever. So he waits. There’s so much, too much that intertwines his life with yours for it to be left open.

It isn’t over. This, he knows. 

The years pass and he learns to stop reaching across the side of his bed. He no longer turns to a phantom beside him in a crowd, no longer holds his hand behind him in a dense crowd to guide a lover that’s not there. 

But he waits. He bides his time, goes over what went wrong like an old, broken record. 

His patience is rewarded when he least expects it, five years after you’d blinked out of existence. The start of the new season is hot – much hotter than London, this time of year. He’s in the paddock ahead of his appearance at the fan forum, talking to Simon when Soap returns, eyes wide and out of breath bearing the news he’s been waiting for. 

The weight of five years apart bears down on him as he ascends to the lounge, teeth digging into the meat of his cheek. Someone says something to him as he enters, another person sidles up to him. He has only one object on his mind as he scans the room.

You’re as lovely – if not more – as the day you’d left. A little older, standing taller by the back of the lounge. His throat dries the moment your eyes meet and finally, after so long, he feels like he can breathe right. 

The two of you had been too young to get it right the first time. Standing in front of you then, it’s clear that this time he won’t make the same mistakes. Racing has lost that veneer of gold that he’d clung to so desperately in his younger twenties. He knows what’s important – she’s shifting on her feet in front of him, unable to meet his gaze.

Niki, though, is a wrench in what had before seemed so simple and reliable. The expectation for you to join him once more in the 1-4-1 garage is spoiled when the other man cuts in.

He’s not above admitting that it rattles him enough to retreat. As long as he’d known you, all you had ever been was his. His to touch, his to take care of. Niki’s hand on your back, the tenderness in his eyes as he passes you a bottle of water – he wouldn’t begrudge the man if it were anyone else but the woman he’s staring at has long since been claimed, no matter the years that stretch that band thin. 

It’s a bitter move, necessary as it is. He knows he can’t strike – not here, and with the pressure of his race weekend schedule pressing on him, certainly not now. To rush would be to lead himself into certain ruin and Kyle has had enough losses lately. This one would outweigh them all.

It is only through steeled self-discipline that he doesn’t return to the Williams garage where he knows you – and Niki, though he marvels at how the third rate driver managed to score a contract with them – will be. There is much to be done and though he longs to shirk it all – what was one instance of disobedience if it would bring you back to him? – a quelling look from Price calls him, begrudgingly, to heel.

He cannot act in anger, cannot execute a plan in a passion. Blue eyes strike though him, laser cutting steel to impress upon him – bide your time. Wait…

He crosses the finish line in fourth place, tires nearly giving out when the team fucks up their pit stop strategy – the heat gets to everyone, it seems, but he finds himself doubly unforgiving when he knows that you’re somewhere amongst the crowd in the lounge, watching your boyfriend cut in front of him at the last possible moment. 

Observe…

Niki, on the podium, gleams under the Australian sun and you’re in the crowd amongst his mechanics looking dazed, suddenly pushed forward by rough, joking hands as he surges forward to swoop you up in a kiss. Your mouth slides against his and Kyle, handing his balaclava to an intern, watches with burning eyes, sweat dripping from his hairline and collecting in his lashes. When you part from the man, your lips gleam, gloss smudged around the edges of your mouth and your eyes flutter a little. 

You do the same in Shanghai, folded within the cluster of Niki’s team and consoling him on fourth place when he exits the car at the end of the race. Kyle, who’d pushed through to second, feels his stomach curdle when he straightens up from receiving his medal, the metal heavy around his neck. When he looks down to the crowd, you’ve got your fingers in Niki’s hair, head bent close to his and nodding at something he says with that soft, sympathetic turn to your mouth that he remembers used to be reserved solely for him, once.

He can’t resist it in Suzuka, not when he spots you alone while your boyfriend makes a mess of himself. Even though there aren’t any journalists at the party, Niki could stand to be more composed. Kyle has already spotted three phones out, knows that sooner or later – for better or worse – the images of the driver will make their way out to the internet for the masses to dissect. You stand on the sidelines, watching with a little gleam in your eyes that he wants to steal for himself.

Is it stealing, really, if he’s only taking back what was already his?

And he’ll make it easy for you, precious, beautiful thing that you are. He knows he fucked it up last time, knows you deserve nothing but the best and Niki is…decidedly not that. There’s nobody better suited for the role than Kyle – he’s spent a near decade in the car, a decade spent amassing more trophies than he knows what to do with. He’s got the money to make sure you’d never want for anything in your life, the influence to get the two of you where you need to be. He knows every inch of your body. 

It’s been five years, but he’d know you at your barest, still, how could he ever scrub that from his memory, it’s written in his hardwire – he was fashioned for you, as you were for him, be it by invisible hands, the cosmos or evolution itself. All that has happened since the dawn of time, every decision he’s ever made in his life, every burst of wind, every drop of water that has swelled and receded – all roads lead to you.

So he’ll make it easy. 

All you have to do is agree. 

He’s so lost in righteous belief that the possibility of anything else evades him. You’re standing there, in that dress, eyes on someone else and you’re…

You’re shrinking. From him. 

More, you’re stepping towards the fool on the other side of the room, arms coming around his flushed neck and bringing his mouth down to yours – yet it’s Kyle you’re looking at, eyes half lidded as you slide your mouth against your boyfriend’s, anger burning low in your irises. 

Hm. So that’s how you want to play it.

He brings his drink to his mouth, tipping it ever so slightly in your direction before letting the alcohol stream down his throat.

He won’t begrudge you your games. Kyle’s always been the better strategist of you both, anyway. But he has very little intention of making it easy on you.

 and then… strike.

You think you might’ve made a mistake. 

Taunting Kyle had never gone over well historically, fool were you to think he wouldn’t rise to your provocation just because the two of you had grown a little older. Still, you blame it on him – it’s easy to convince yourself that you might have kept a level head had he just left you alone. But that was never in the cards and you know it, had known it from the moment he’d walked through that crowd of people in Melbourne to your side, even if you were unwilling to admit it to yourself.

Maybe you’re just as bad as he is.

When he begins to show his face around the paddock even more, gaze sliding to yours over the shoulder of an intern and greeting you with a subtle, mocking smile, you realise what you’ve just done. Instead of getting him to back off, you’ve only triggered that prey drive, that ruthless unforgiving chase in him, honing his attention to you. 

It’ll be a miracle if you get out of this unscathed.

Miami brings an easterly wind that ruffles the hem of your skirt, a tailspin in the last lap of the race that leaves Niki tense, and the team a place lower in the championship. You’re barely able to exit the team’s hospitality suite to meet him before the sounds from the 1-4-1 garage, next door to Williams’, erupt and you spot that same smug, self-effacing smile that’s been plaguing you for the better part of a month. 

Kyle vaults out of the car as soon as he’s able to, launching himself into his teammate Alex’s arms. The two of them are quick to turn to their team, Alex diving over a barrier into the arms of the 1-4-1’s mechanics and strategists, Kyle laughing wildly as Soap squeezes his waist, bellowing in congratulation.

First and second place respectively. 

You barely manage to hold back the shudder that rolls through you when you emerge from the garage through to the pit lane, conscious of the media milling around. Niki’s car hasn’t yet been brought back to the garage and he’s nowhere to be seen. One of the mechanics mutters something about him having taken off and is quickly shushed by another, furtive glances thrown your way, where Niki’s manager stands with her phone pressed to her ear. 

It’s interesting, how quickly your boy has begun to metamorphosise. How the taste of accomplishment goes straight to his head, plants itself firmly there until all you find in his eyes is a scheming to get it back. More, all it does it make him want it more. It’s a look that troubles you, one you’ve seen the beginning, middle and end of and not once had it ever meant anything but a herald of your undoing, fated from the first pour, that heavy metal around your lover’s neck destined to be your noose.

The Miami sun is weak today, filtering through a thick cloud cover, but it does little to dampen the spirits of the winners. When you turn your head back to the parc fermé, Kyle has unlatched himself from Soap’s bear grip, flushed with triumph as he steps closer in range to the scale the racing directors have brought on. As he steps on, his head tips up and your breath catches in your throat when his eyes meet yours.

That look.

How you’d ever managed to forget that look is beyond you, but standing in its path you feel rather like you’ve been caught. The world around you seems to hollow out, and even from this distance you can almost see the dilation of his pupils, hear the rapid beat of his heart. Blood, your own or his, you can’t be sure, roars in your ears. Salt drips down from his temples, lashes fluttering with every slow, heavy blink. Pure, distilled hunger etches itself across his face. Unthinkingly, your tongue ventures forward to press against your lips, saliva gathering in your mouth. 

When Kyle steps off the scale, for a second he jerks one way, as if to hunt you down and momentarily, traitorously, you forget just why it would be a terrible thing. Something like electricity zips down your spine, invisible fingers pressing bruises into your hips, and you stiffen. In an instant you’re back to the way it was, twenty one and brimming with the anticipation of what that look promised you, what it always delivered –

Fogged glass panels in the shower, champagne soaked memories and boneless limbs collapsing, face-first into twisted hotel bedsheets. Sticky skin and ruined underwear that never survived the night, only scraps of shredded lace littering your hotel floor by the time dawn broke. Your thighs squeeze together and his gaze narrows, knowingly. There are only a few strides between the two of you 

– A hand claps down on your shoulder suddenly and you startle, blinking rapidly up at the face in front of you. 

Niki. He’s red faced, brow drawn taught as he looks down at you expectantly. Faint tear tracks stain his cheeks, and his eyes are a little red. Guilt whittles you down to the core, your embarrassment levelling his own as you let him lead you back into the confines of the garage where the cameras can’t follow. It’s mortifying, the amount of energy it takes you to keep your eyes ahead of you instead of looking back, where you know Kyle remains, his stare burning against your neck. 

“You okay?” you dare to whisper, later, when you’ve climbed into the back of a car en route to your hotel. Niki, next to you, sighs and you bite your lip. The traitorous desire that had begun to simmer cools now, discomfort of another kind taking form as you watch his jaw tick in disappointment. 

“I almost had it,” he says quietly, fingers forming a fist against his thigh. Your question opens the floodgates, it seems, because he begins to mutter, more to himself than anything. You wonder for a moment, when the thought crosses your mind as you watch him grow redder and redder, that you wish you hadn’t asked, and then you wonder just when you got so selfish. “I was so…fucking close. I told the team, you know, I told them there was something wrong with the car, knew it after Jeddah…”

When the car pulls up to the hotel, Niki’s woes have lapsed into a thick silence and your skin crawls in the quiet. No stranger to post-race disappointment, you’re reaching for the door handle and exiting silently. Had you been a half decade younger, you might have tottered after Niki and latched onto his arm, reached for every method of comfort you had at your disposal in a paltry effort to soothe his wounds. 

But you do not. Something uncaring, something selfish and unwilling keeps you a few paces behind him, fiddling with the latch of your purse to occupy your hands. You can see it clear as day, can remember the post-loss ritual you’d whittled down to an exact science, ever doting girlfriend meant to keep his spirits up, to make sure he’s in the right frame of mind before the next race. Though you would never step foot in that garage as part of the team, you still had a duty to them. And yet something stops you every time you open your mouth, a block wedged in your throat, the only emotion you can muster a faint exhaustion that somehow once more, you’ve found yourself back here again, and you aren’t sure it’s worth it.

You’re keenly aware of the role you’re meant to be playing right now. Sitting across from Niki in an upscale restaurant, the soft lighting brings out the shadowed moue on his face, the distracted air about him as he rattles off an order for the both of you when the waiter comes around. You’re meant to cushion this fall right now, to cup his trouble in your hands and bear it for the both of you so that he might return to the track next weekend in full form raring to go.

You can’t bring yourself to. 

Every time you open your mouth, there’s a weight that stays your tongue. Part of you thinks it might be an adamant refusal to fall into old habits – habits you’d picked up during your time with Kyle – that had only led you down the spiral of your identity crisis, that had only taken and taken and taken pieces of you until there was little else left but the hollow smile of a supportive girlfriend. 

The part of you that knows better, the part of you that had felt your stomach flutter earlier this afternoon, pressed her legs together under the lion’s eye to savour that feeling – she knows it’s only a feeble excuse. 

The real reason for your distraction, the object of your frustration, sits at a table not too far away and though there’s about three people around him, his eyes remain solely on you. Lids heavy, arm bent at the elbow with his hand over his chin deliberatively, he watches you unabashedly with no care for the conversation going on at his table; it’s a rousing one, too, if the way Alex Keller rears back in his seat is anything to go by, but Kyle has no care for any of it. 

It had taken you by surprise when you’d looked over Niki’s shoulder to see him. Yet for all you’d frowned at him Kyle had only tilted his head just so, a small smile tugging at his lips. Unwittingly, you’d walked right into yet another snare, unable to look away from him for too long. That damn gravitational pull, that cursed magnetism, you’re pulled back to him every minute as if some unknown thread pulls your attention to make sure he hasn’t disappeared. He doesn’t let you ignore him, does not let up at all. 

You learn very quickly that there is a thin demarcation between frustration and desire. All too soon you’re pulled back to the same heat of the earlier afternoon, shifting in your seat uncomfortably under his stare and giving Niki clipped, distracted answers when he speaks to you. 

Your drinks arrive at the same time that Kyle’s does and you’re keenly aware of the way he peers over the rim of his glass, amber liquid swishing within its container as he brings it to his mouth. Your own dries, watching his throat bob, watching the way his tongue darts out to catch a droplet that clings to his lip.

Standing suddenly, you push your napkin onto the table.

“I need the bathroom,” you mutter to Niki, stalking away before he can respond. You don’t see the derisive laugh Kyle lets out behind him, or the shake of his head before he makes an excuse of his own.

No, you’re not outrunning him now.

The lights in the bathroom illuminate every inch of the space, a spotlight on your guilt from the moment your heels click against the tiled floor that gives you nowhere to hide. You’re grateful there isn’t an attendant inside to witness your unravelling. Your brow is beginning to perspire, cheeks already flushed with heat as you set your purse against the counter-top and press your palms into the cool stone. In the mirror, your reflection eyes you uncomfortably.

“Fuck.” Hissing the profanity out doesn’t lessen the tight feeling in your stomach any, and you frown hard at yourself, smacking your palm down into the counter. “Fuck.”

You reach out to turn the tap on, running your fingers underneath the steady stream of cold water when a knock sounds against the door.

“Occupied,” you call back weakly, swallowing when your voice crumbles a little over the syllables. Your reflection eyes you dubiously, lips turning down in derision. 

Look at you. What a mess you’ve made of things, huh? 

Whoever is on the other side of the door doesn’t seem to care for your butchered response, knocking again a little more intently. It sparks your already fraying nerves.

“There’s someone in here!” You call back, unable to keep the irritation out of your voice, but all you receive in response is another series of raps at the door.

“Asshole,” you curse under your breath, only barely resisting the urge to stomp your foot.

With a scoff, you turn the tap off and clutch your purse, damp fingertips pressing blooming waterlilies into its satin skin. Whirling on your feet, you stalk towards the door and pull it open, preparing to push past whoever’s in such dire need for the bathroom and return to the hotseat.

You don’t get a chance to even cross the threshold after the door opens before you’re being corralled back inside. Honey eyes and a taunting glare push you backwards, Kyle’s hand on your hips steering you where he wants.

Your heart lurches violently at the press of his chest against yours and you’re unable to contain the startled gasp that punches out of your lungs. 

“Kyle, you –” you sputter, your nerves kicking into overdrive as you glare up at him. “What are you doing? Are you crazy?”

“Just came to check on you, love,” he says, affecting an innocence that is wholly betrayed by the glint in his eyes, the way he draws his bottom lip into his mouth as he looks you up and down. “You left the table in such a rush, thought something happened.”

You stare up at him, hyperaware of the little distance between the two of you. Your chest heaves with your breaths, heart fluttering hummingbird-like in its cavity. Rage and desire war within you under his narrowed gaze, honey eyes now abyssal dark with want.

“I’m fine,” you manage to bite out, at last. Beneath the fabric of your dress, your stomach has begun to tighten, heat simmering in your navel and diffusing through to your thighs. 

“You sure?” You dip your head in a stiff nod when he asks you, voice dipping in faux, saccharine, concern and go to take a step back. Only, there’s a hand around your wrist that tugs you right back into his orbit, stumbling into his chest. “You look a little flustered to me.”

“I’m not flustered.”

His gaze gets even sharper at that and you begin to realise that for all your protesting, you’ve walked right into the trap he’d set up. Anticipation makes your limbs tremble under his grip when his head tilts, brow raising in perfunctory acquiescence. 

“No?” he questions and you shake your head. “Hm. Guess I must’ve read you wrong.”

“You did,” you can’t help but spit the words at him. “Will you let go now?”

“It makes sense, it’s been so long,” he muses thoughtfully, gaze somewhere over your shoulder and continuing as if you haven’t spoken. Still, his fingers remain wrapped around your wrist, warm, pulsing over your throbbing veins. Then, he looks down at you and smiles slightly. It isn’t a nice thing, too much teeth and far too sharp around the edges to bring you any comfort. Your pulse quickens under his fingers. “I probably don’t know you as well as I used to.”

“Kyle,” you stress, tugging your wrist. He doesn’t let go, only bringing his other hand to your hip and nudging you back against the counter until the ledge meets your back.

“Just…humour me for a second, babe,” he says lightly, as if he hasn’t got you pressed up against the bathroom mirror with your boyfriend waiting in the restaurant outside, probably wondering what’s taking you so long. As if you can’t feel the tent in his slacks pressing against your hip and making your head spin at the unignorable evidence of his desire, flush against you, separated only by a few layers of fabric. You draw in a shaky breath and he smiles, a soft, dangerous thing. “You remember how it was before, right? Thought I could read your mind for a moment, there, didn’t we?”

“That was well over half a decade ago,” you defend and he hums in passive agreement.

“Yeah. Could just tell by looking at you, couldn’t I? Knew what you were thinking without you having to say it. Knew where to touch, where you wanted it, how you wanted it,” He sighs a little, as if reminiscing. “You remember Monza, don’t you? Know I do.”

Your traitorous body flushes with heat at the mention of that summer. How he’d mapped every inch of you into the early hours of the morning after his victory, keen eyes cataloguing your every expression and movement after your voice had given out on you – a long weekend of cheering him on, a longer night of crying out under the ministrations of his mouth, his fingers, his cock, all bringing you to finish over and over again. 

It’s true. At one point, he’d been so attuned to your behaviour the two of you had barely needed to exchange words. It had only made the inattention that brought about the end of your relationship all the more bitter.

You can’t help yourself, heat extinguished by the sour reminder. The words fly out your mouth before you can contain them, a dagger piercing the thick haze. “Didn’t notice much towards our last few months, though, did you.”

His smile stiffens, then, and you feel the hair on the back of your neck stand on end as the temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees. “Guess not.”

When he leans in closer, nose brushing against yours, you hold your breath. All around you is him, the scent of his cologne, the breadth of his shoulders filling your field of vision, the warmth radiating from him. Inescapable, and you, the poor animal in his sights. 

You realise, horrified: You’re not entirely certain you want to escape him.

“But I learn from my mistakes, you know. Be hard pressed to fail like that again.”

“I have to go,” you say, weakly and he only smiles, letting go of your wrist. 

“You know, you’re just as easy to read now as you were then,” he tells you quietly, just as you go to move out from where he’s got you pinned. The crackling heat in his voice stops you in your tracks, a low, burning fire that warms you inside out and snaps your gaze back to him. His mouth quirks up in a wry, crooked slant and he leans in a little, peering at you through heavy eyelids. Desire swallows the honey brown of his irises and your breath quickens. “You can lie to yourself all you want but I know you.”

His hand comes up to trace the curve of your neck, curled fingers skimming down over your bare shoulder and eliciting an unintentional shiver from you. The notes of his drink tickle your nose when he speaks, your lips parting as he comes in close. 

“You tell me you’re fine, but I bet if I reached under that dress of yours I’d find you fucking dripping, wouldn’t I?” He laughs a little, and you inhale shakily, unable to protest because of course he’s right. The underwear you’d slipped on after your shower is sodden between your legs, thighs sliding against each other with the traces of your arousal. “Course I would. Think I’ve forgotten how to read you just because it’s been a while? You’re not as subtle as you think, love. Think the entire room could tell, the way you’ve been squirming in your seat all evening.”

The though sends a bolt of electricity down your spine, back tensing against the counter at the thought of all the eyes in the restaurant knowing. At the thought that you hadn’t hidden yourself away as much as you’d thought. Kyle’s hand hovers over your waist, fingers ghosting against your navel and making you suck in a breath. 

“I could help,” he offers, casually. “I’d make it quick. You always liked my fingers, didn’t you, baby?”

The silence that follows his words stretches on far too long to be appropriate, the protest that should come glaringly absent on your tongue as you stare up at him through wide eyes. Suggestion gives way to imagination, your mind betraying you to conjure up the memory of a fullness you’d not been able to replicate, the stretch and slide of fingers bigger than yours stroking at your most sensitive spots with an agility that could only come with intimate familiarity. 

“You want me to,” he breathes out, amazed. Delighted, he laughs. “How long’s he had you unsatisfied like this, darling? Fuck, I bet you’re dying for it, aren’t you? You want me to make you come and send you out to your little boyfriend after.”

It’s the reminder of who’s sitting outside, of Niki, that makes you jolt where you stand, ice water dousing over you in a frigid recollection of where you are. You push Kyle off you, hands landing a blow against his chest with all the strength you can muster behind it, and he retreats easily, a laugh echoing in the empty bathroom as he takes a few steps back. 

That damning smirk haunts you on your way out.

Kyle leans against the wall, watching you undo the lock on the door with a sense of satisfaction. Your fingers fumble with the latch, trembling in your haste to get away from him. Yet when you pull the door open, he straightens, for the little look you dart over your shoulder at him before you all but run away, unable to hide the dilation of your pupils from him, or the way you bite your lip, your fist clenching at your side like you’re afraid you’ll reach out for him if you stay too long. 

He waits a few minutes before he returns to his own table, aware he can’t go back out there in such a state. He might as well put up a sign letting the establishment know he’s open for business if he does. 

The feel of you against him again had done little to convince him that he should let you go. In fact, he’d been a hair away from dropping to his knees and rucking your dress up to get a taste of the desire you’d seemed so adamant about denying, had been halfway into making the fantasy of making your eyes roll with his mouth on you again when you’d startled and run away. 

When he steps outside the bathroom, he’s only a little glad there’s nobody waiting outside for him. Less chance of being spotted that way. Still, he can’t help but to amuse himself with the thought of Niki finding out just what a mess he’d made of his girl. 

His girl. The claim the man has on you is laughable. Even now, when Kyle turns his head to look, he’s still sulking about the loss with his eyes on his plate. You’re sitting across from him with your lips pressed tightly together, fiddling with your cutlery and staunchly avoiding looking in Kyle’s direction. 

Anyone could spirit you away and he wouldn’t even notice. 

Which is exactly what he plans on doing. In his defence, he’d never taken to being spurned well.

i hope you guys all had such a wonderful week and enjoyed this chapter!! my brain is a little bit mush from the week i've had LARPING as a corporate girl (!!) but i will return at some point to go over this and smooth out anything that i missed when i was re-drafting. i will say this though my highlight of the week was getting to go to lunch and seeing so many men in businesswear smoking and eating lunch. gaze was extremely lustful i'm so sorry guys…#thatshot

anyway i really enjoyed writing gaz being more manipulative (sue me) because i think he's such a sneaky little shit and it was fun to explore that side of him. yes, your boyfriend is right outside, no he doesn't have any shame about cornering you in the bathroom and reminding you just how good he was at pleasing you.

DEFINITIONS

SENNA, SCHUMACHER: famous f1 drivers

COOL DOWN ROOM: a post-race area where the top three drivers wait before the podium, allowing fans to see their real, often candid interactions, from tense rivalries to funny moments, showcasing human connection beyond the race

TEAM PRINCIPAL: An F1 Team Principal is the ultimate leader, CEO, and public face of a Formula 1 racing team, responsible for overseeing all technical, operational, commercial, and human resources aspects of the ~1,200-person organization. They make crucial high-level decisions, manage budgets, and handle team orders.

CHIEF ENGINEER: A Formula 1 Chief Engineer (often titled Trackside Chief Engineer or similar) is a senior, top-level engineer responsible for leading the trackside technical team to maximize car performance and reliability throughout a race weekend. They oversee the engineering department, bridge the gap between trackside personnel and factory management, and coordinate all technical operations. 

You cringe when you remember the all too eager way you’d volunteered to track down one of the team’s media interns, a university student you’d only briefly met in passing who had seemed more interested in drinking his way through the season than doing any actual work. A harsh judgement maybe, and you might have been less inclined to hold it against him if not for the agitation in the garage as a result of his absence. Agitation you’d compulsively sought to soothe, voice pitching before you could think, in false brightness, unable to resist donning the skin you’d shed so long ago. You’d thought so, anyway.

Niki had begged and pleaded you with such a vengeance it had taken you aback. It had been hard enough telling him no, when he’d widened his eyes so dolefully, clasped your hands in his warm ones and asked it of you.

The others will have their partners there. I just want you to support me, you know you’re my lucky charm. 

You’d wondered, not for the first time, just why you’d chosen to date a driver again. A cruel thought that you’d banished as quickly as it had come, guilt making you squirm when you looked at the man before you, vanquishing his pride to ask a feat of you that anyone else would have accepted without thinking. But you could not. Would not.

And then, the off season. 

He’d travelled back and forth between your home and his without a single complaint ever passing his lips, never sour, never cold despite his disappointment. He’d smiled at you, that first morning when he’d surprised you, a day before he’d been due to arrive. Standing on your doorstep at six in the morning with tired eyes and a handful of flowers he’d filched from your next door neighbour’s garden, Mrs Burns’ prized hellebores had gone straight into a vase on your kitchen counter and you’d admitted it to yourself; you could not deny him. No matter how terribly your stomach knotted at the thought of stepping foot on a race track again. 

God, hadn’t his smile made you ache when you’d told him. The world, offered to your boy on a platter, the beginnings of something new within reach. And you, by his side through it all.

It had been with the taste of bile on your tongue, and a silent promise to yourself that you’d boarded that plane. Things would be different this time. This was Niki – sweet, beautiful Niki, patient as he was ambitious. And you – you were older, wiser than the last time you’d known this world. The years away had taught you better, had given you a clarity you refused to gamble, too precious to let slip through your fingers again. You would enter this season entirely re-made, and unscathed you would leave it.

But 9 o’clock in the morning on race day and you’ve already reprised the role you had put down – you’d thought forever. You cling to hope that you’ll be able to keep your word.

Grumbling, you pick up your pace. The paper fan you’d packed in your purse comes out next as you make your way to the bar, but all it does is weakly push waves of hot air into your face; someone passes by with one that’s electric and you eye them enviously. You spot the signature blue cap soon enough, lanyard hanging around his neck. There’s a can in his hand and the boy chats to one of the patrons next to him, a flush on his cheeks that you’re willing to wager isn’t entirely heat-induced. 

You come to a stop next to him with a snap of his name and he turns to you quickly, surprise colouring his face. Jabbing a thumb over your shoulder, you tell him flatly,

“You’re wanted in the garage.” He startles at the mention of his job and you sigh. “Keep your ringer on next time, mate. I don’t think the team will be too happy if there’s a repeat of this.”

“Yeah, course, sorry,” he mumbles, setting the can down. The guy next to him turns away to offer him the decency of making an exit with his pride somewhat intact, but the shake of his shoulders tells you he’s trying not to laugh out loud. 

You wish you could share that. The race goers around you are bearing the heat much better than you, loud chatter and laughter filling the air in the lead up to the main race. But at present, you find yourself more concerned with returning to the enclosed, air-conditioned space of the lounge above the garage away from the sun-dried lawn beneath your shoes, dust and dirt settling in a thin layer over your flats. A terrible choice, one you’re regretting now as you kick up a small cloud with each step you take.

You shoot a message off to Niki’s manager, who you imagine will give the intern an earful as soon as he steps within the bounds of the paddock. It’s vindictive, but you find little sympathy in your heart for him. The heat – and the discomfort you’re determined to ignore – makes it hard to feel anything really, pressing down into every inch of your exposed skin unforgiveably. 

As you come within range of the paddock, you’re stopped. In your hurry, you collide into a passerby and a startled apology flies out of your mouth hastily, gaze flying up in alarm to make sure you haven’t hurt the other person in your rush.

“Oh, I’m so sorry, I-”

“Sorry-”

The apology dies on your lips. Even through the tinted lenses of your sunglasses, you’d know those blue eyes anywhere. You’d spent half a decade in their company, after all.

Johnny Mactavish stands in front of you, mouth gaping as he takes you in. Briefly, you wonder stupidly whether you’ll manage to get by unrecognised, but your shades and cap prove to be a poor disguise when he says your name.

“Is that you? It is,” he says, voice pitching in surprise. You have no time to anticipate his next move and before you can blink, you’re wrapped up in a bear hug from the man, the smell of his cologne filling your nose. 

“Hi, John,” you murmur, reaching up to hug him back tentatively.

He scoffs, letting you go. “I haven’t seen you in fuck knows how long and that’s how you greet me? You know how to make a man feel special, love.”

That makes you crack a grin, wariness sloughing off easily in the face of his easy humour. It always had been hard to remain closed off around Johnny, too good-natured to ignore. You squeeze his arm in apology. “How are you?”

He smiles broadly down at you and your heart pangs a little under the force of it. “Can’t complain. Jet lag’s fucking killing me, though. Think I’m getting too old for this.”

You bark out a laugh. “Old!”

He nods solemnly, though his grin never fases. He tilts his head down, offering you a look at the top of his mohawk. “Aye, can’t you see the greys I’ve got now? Maybe it’s time to get some work done. You know any good places?”

“Stop it, Johnny,” you chide softly, snoring. “You’re just fishing for compliments now.”

“You caught me,” he agrees, straightening up with a chortle. “How’ve you been, lovely? Been too long.”

Your stomach dips at the reminder, and you look away, uncomfortable. “Yeah, yeah it has. I’m – I’m good, trying to avoid getting heatstroke.”

The pitiful laugh you tack on at the end to sell how good you’re doing goes unnoticed – or, the ugly, more likely truth, knowing Soap, gracefully unaddressed – in favour of dragging you into a spot of shade.

“Get you out of the sun, there,” he says. And then, casually, he says the words that make your breakfast (a meagre assembly of oats and fruit, too queasy to keep anything else down so early in the morning) threaten to make an appearance. “Garrick’ll be fucking thrilled to see you. He know you’re here?”

He looks around as though he’d be able to spot him and your legs feel weak. “I’m sure he’s around here, somewhere. He’s got an appearance in a bit, though, so-”

It’s the first mention all weekend of the name that had kept you away from this place. Absently, you wonder how you’d managed to make it this far without someone bringing him up to you. What little calm you’ve managed to gather dissipates in a cloud of smoke, vapourising in the heat and raising that old question once more – is this really worth it?

Old hurts had been something you could bear in the solitude of your home, fary from prying eyes, far from the one who’d given them to you in the first place. But now, on the same ground, you’re unsure whether your sutures will hold. The weight of all that has been rests heavy on your shoulders and for one awful, beautiful, moment, you think of brown eyes in the sunlight. Champagne arching over golden skin and kisses pressed to visors amidst a roaring crowd.

Garrick, Garrick, Garrick.

There’s a phantom weight that cuffs a finger on your left hand, metal you recall glinting under artificial light, clear cut and worth more than you could imagine. Your stomach flips and suddenly eager to get away from this conversation, you cut off his musing. “Um, no, he doesn’t know. I’ve got to go, though. It was really nice seeing you, Johnny. I’ll see you around or something, okay?”

His brows furrow in confusion and he stares down at you, thick arms crossing in front of him. For a moment you wait, frozen under his gaze, before his face softens and he shakes his head. “Ah, come on, you’re not avoiding him, are you?”

Avoiding him.

He says it disbelievingly, as though memory has failed him and rewritten the past to a world where you have little reason to not reunite with Kyle Garrick. Like a silly squabble is all that stands between you and the man. 

But you recall how it had been in the end, and common sense – and the girl that lives in your heart still, 23 and grieving – begs you to hold onto your reluctance, however silly it may seem to the man in front of you. You are avoiding him. But you’re not about to admit that to the man’s mechanic, especially not on the first fucking day of the season. 

“No, Soap,” you sigh. “I’m-”

“He’d be glad to see you, love, I know it,” he insists, then, and you feel the beginnings of a headache coming on. Resisting the urge to pinch your nose, you nod.

“I’ve really got to go, I’ll see you,” you say firmly, and without waiting for a response you turn on your heel. Moving out of the shade you’re hit once more by the sun and the skin on the back of your neck begins to heat. It makes you regret not wearing something more concealing. 

When you make it back to the lounge there is sweat dripping from your temples and your neck is very unflatteringly damp. Niki spots you as you enter, standing nearby talking to his manager. His grey eyes light up and he moves towards you. 

“Where were you!” He takes a look at your expression and offers a sympathetic laugh, reaching for a tissue from a nearby table and dotting it at your face gently. “Poor thing, you’re melting.”

“Tracking down one of your interns,” you mutter, closing your eyes under his ministrations though all you’re  certain he’s doing is smearing the vestiges of your separating makeup. The smell of Niki’s cologne and the cool lime air freshener circulating through the room is a comfort at least, a distraction from the mess of nerves you’ve worked yourself up into. When you sigh, he snickers and pulls the now damp tissue away from your face. 

“That’s the best I can do, I’m afraid,” he tells you and you open your eyes. His dark hair curls forward into his forehead, a faint flush settled across his cheeks and nose. The slant of his smile is boyish, sweet in an innocent way. You’re struck with the urge to press forward into his space and hide yourself there, in the cradle of his arms, but you know it would never last long enough before the rest of the world came knocking.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. He stares at you for a moment, thoughtful before taking a step away. 

“I’ll get you a drink, alright?” 

You can only offer him a pale smile in response.

It’s a singular moment. A breath, in and out, is all it takes. Really, you ought to have expected it. Niki steps away and no sooner than he’s left your eyeline does the lounge erupt in a flurry of activity, the once quiet buzz of conversation reaching a new pitch. Excitement ripples through the room and you, at the very farthest corner, feel your palms begin to sweat.

You know it before you even see him. 

He’d always been magnetic, it doesn’t surprise you in the least to see that he’s learned to wield it even better over the years. Easy charm, a reputation to precede him, Kyle Garrick knows how to command a room. The suite clamours, bodies surging forward in tentative waves, lapping at the edges of his space in eager attempts to gain his attention. Even the haughtiest stakeholders, rich business men who before had been more invested in the grazing tables set out and shaking palms with competitors and investors alike, turn their faces to him, seeking out the brightest light in the room. 

It’s difficult not to give in. You stare hard at the glass pane overlooking the track, stare at the carpeted floor beneath your feet, stare at the tissue you’ve begun to tear in your hands. You will for some semblance of composure.

But in the end, you’re no better than the rest. It takes a singular moment, in which Niki leaves, Kyle enters and you look up, locking eyes with your ex boyfriend for the first time in five years. 

He stands in the centre of the lounge, looking every bit the star you know him to be. Countless eyes are fixed on him but his gaze pierces through them all to where you stand, brown eyes widening in poorly concealed disbelief and stealing nearly all the strength from your legs. 

Kyle has little to say to the entourage that circles him at a distance, only ducking his head politely and cutting through the crowd. In only a few steps, he’s standing in front of you, eyes lighting up. Your throat tightens in kind and you clutch the shredded tissue in your hands tighter.

In his face, in his parted lips and sweet honey gaze, you see, aching, traces of the boy you’d known all those years ago. A sincere, open gaze soaks you in, as though he can’t believe you’re standing in front of him. 

The great heartbreak of your life stands before you, carrying so much fondness in a single look you might have believed you’d never been separated a day of your lives since the moment you’d met, if it weren’t for the cutting pain in your chest. Your name tumbles from his lips and you draw blood, you’re sure of it, by the sting in your palm. 

“Hi,” he says, breathless. His gaze is rapid, darting from your hair to your face to your eyes, your clothes, your shoes. You’re swallowed alive by his stare, hungry, eager, and you’re certain he’ll find you wanting, the mess that you so obviously are, but all you find in his gaze is heartwrenching awe.

“Hi,” you murmur back. 

“You’re here,” he says dumbly, faintly. You get the feeling he isn’t even speaking to you when he repeats himself, blinking rapidly. Then, as if realising, he shakes his head. 

The years away have been good to him, you can admit to yourself with some reluctance. When you’d seen him last, at 23, he’d still carried the softness of his youth in his face. He’s since shed that skin, manhood settling comfortably over him and bringing with it a solidness that you linger over. Most different of all, he keeps his hair cropped close, a five o’clock shadow dusting across his jaw and over his upper lip. You recall a younger man, natural curls a little longer and bare faced, shaky smiles covered by a veneer of false confidence. 

The man in front of you needs no falsity. 

“You look beautiful,” he says genuinely. It’s unfair, you think, how easily he manages to say that. Like there isn’t an age of unsaid words between you, years of history that hangs over your heads, vengeful and tainting all that it touches. 

It is nothing, for Kyle, to tell you this.

To you, it threatens to take everything you’ve worked for in turn. How funny, that three little words should be so daunting, that time has passed and you’re only now realising the weakness of your resolve.

You open your mouth – to say what, you have no idea. What is there to say? What can you say, when faced with such a ghost of your history? But you’re quickly diverted as your name is called and the smell of clove fills your nose.

“They only had sparkling water, so I had one of the staff run out – sorry I took so long.”

You watch as Kyle’s face shutters, eyes slicing over your shoulder to where Niki has yet to notice him – or perhaps deigns not to altogether, slight disdain at being interrupted giving way to realisation.

It’s difficult to place why you feel guilty, turning into Niki’s arms and pressing your face into his chest briefly. When you peek over his shoulder, Kyle is still standing there, lips pressed together tightly. He lingers for a moment, before he retreats. 

You do not see him again for the remainder of the weekend, but the feeling in the bottom of your stomach stays. 

It twists you out of shape, leaves you with a sour taste on your tongue and a restless, distracted spirit. You catch yourself looking over your shoulder as you move through the lounges and paddock, eyes searching through the crowds for something you can’t place. An absence of that something gnaws at you, leaves you picking at your nails until they’re bloody.

When Niki’s car pulls into the pit lane after the final lap on Sunday, you’re so frazzled it takes you a beat before you’re able to push forward and receive him, lips pulling up stiltedly to press against his. High on his performance – third place, you realise, belatedly – you only feel worse. Hoping he can’t taste your apology, you clutch him tighter and tell him you’re proud of him. 

The only palpable relief you get is from the conclusion of the weekend. 

It’s easy enough to excuse yourself from the festivities. Niki pouts when you tell him you’re feeling poorly from the heat but he lets up soon enough when you tell him quietly, 

“I’d rather just celebrate with you, Ace.”

He carves out a space in you that night, tucking his head into your neck and whispering praises you don’t deserve. There’s a dull sting from the stretch that he might have balked at, if you told him, but it grounds you in a way, the pain bringing your free floating thoughts back down to earth. ‘

Back to the smooth rustle of the hotel sheets beneath you, the sweat dripping off Niki’s brow and the lovesickness in his eye. Away from brown eyes and a past life long laid to rest.

It’s still early in the evening, enough so that you urge him to catch up with his team when he rolls off you and begins to fidget. So full of energy, even after he’s left you winded and gasping for your breath. Your stamina had never quite held up, where these athletes were concerned. 

A phantom laugh skitters over your bare collar after the door closes behind Niki, and you flinch back into the sheets, brushing away once more the film reel of race night memories, of celebrations that had overturned your life, had left grooves in the floor and teethmarks on the softest parts of you.

Distance from Kyle stretches your uneasiness thin, fat taffy strings pulling into spiderweb-like threads. It gives you room to think, unfettered by agitation, by condemning memory. In your cocoon of sheets you reason outloud to the empty room, words you convince yourself you’re capable of telling him face to face.

“I found someone that loves me,” you stress, wrapping the blanket around your shoulders tighter. Niki had ordered room service for you before he’d left, throwing you one last look as if to ask if you were sure you wouldn’t come out. You’re sure the hotel staff have seen worse sights – have left rooms in worse states – but you make sure you keep your voice low anyway. “He wants me. I’m with him.”

Sticky date pudding and rich, salted chips dipped in aioli serve as the boost of encouragement you need. Through vicious bites of your snacks, you make up your mind. 

It had only been a momentary lapse. Come next race weekend, you’ll be back to rights and Kyle will be placed firmly in the back of your mind, along with your history, where he belongs. 

Here, and now, the tipsy boyfriend that makes an early return to spend the rest of the night watching trashy reality TV while trading bites of pudding for kisses – this was what mattered.

Niki falls asleep, slumped against your chest with a hand curled around your waist and you look down at him. Pressing a kiss to his brow, you lean over and turn the lamp off.

There’s a look that Kyle gets in his eye before each race. When he’s lowering himself into the cockpit, helmet visor still flipped up as the garage begins to pick up with activity as it grows closer and closer to race-time. You stay by his side as long as you can (he’d laid it down the first time anyone had attempted to tell you otherwise, firm in his instruction that you would be here or he’d find another team less willing to argue) before you’re inevitably ushered off back to the lounge above the garage, or hovering against a back wall next to his publicist, nodding as the woman goes through the mile long list of media obligations he still has to fulfil. She’s only really speaking out loud to herself but you nod anyway. With Simon and Johnny preoccupied with the mechanics and Price at the helm, bending down to run through he and Kyle’s last minute race notes, you’re left to your own devices. 

When he’s in the car, you watch something slide off him, like flecks of paint dissolving beneath a stream of water to reveal the polished surface beneath. He’s Gaz, then, no longer simply Kyle. A decorated driver with four championships beneath his belt already, adored and loathed by the masses alike. To parse out the man who brings you water in the middle of the night and sneaks out of meetings to steal you away for a lunch date is a feat in itself. 

In the cockpit, there is only the car and its master. He flexes his fingers, rolls his shoulders as much as he can in the enclosed space. Soft brown eyes harden, warm honey solidifying. From their depths, you witness the embarkment of something greater, his determination manifest. 

Like Kyle, the car itself takes on a quality beyond its wrought metal and carbon fiber. The paint glimmers, something thrumming beneath the coating, a quiet promise in the powerful hum that reverberates through the garage when Soap flips the control switch. You can feel it in your teeth, edging through the seam of your closed lips and slipping beneath your gums, wrapping around your molars. 

The cars take their places on the grid. Amongst the sea of bright blues and reds and greens, Kyle’s car – a sleek, jet-black beast, ribboned in abyssal midnight blue – is the one that you search out. This afternoon, he’ll be starting in fifth place, a setback he’d groused about the night before at length. Qualifying hadn’t gone as he and the rest of the team had hoped – Soap, in particular, rioting when the penalty had come through following Kyle’s attaining pole position. The celebration had soured quickly after that as he’d dropped down from first place. Even as an accessory to the team, you’d found yourself unable to escape the taste of disappointment watching Kyle’s face face. 

The loss had hit him hard. Though he’s well past his rookie season, there’s this burning need that drives Kyle forward in this life – this compulsion to prove himself, to be the best. A great, lumbering hunger lives within him that swallows all that steps into his path. 

Kyle drives with a singular goal in mind, uncaring of who or what might bear the fallout. 

You’ve seen it before and now, 15 laps in, you see it again, watching with poorly contained horror as Kyle cuts sharply in front of another driver. There’s a hair’s breadth of distance between his front wing and the other’s as the man is forced to steer his car off the track to avoid a collison. Kyle on the other hand, adds another to the two places he’s risen since the lights turned green. 

Only one stands between him and the prize. 

Looking around the garage, you find that nobody else seems to share your disconcertion. 

He’s crowned winner in the end. Of course he is. The FIA have little to say after the brief investigation into the incident with Bernardo – you flinch at the memory of his voice cursing Kyle out over the radio, something the broadcasters report on with no little amusement – and you watch from the pit lane as the champagne sprays over him. He’s beaming, dripping sweat and alcohol and the flashes are going off in front of you. 

They coax him into an impromptu interview, later, as you’re heading out. Kyle’s arm hangs heavy around your shoulder and he’s practically buzzing, teeming with the high of his victory. There are promises being whispered into your ear, far too crass to be made in public and yet here is your boyfriend, laughing when you pinch his side in embarrassment after he hints at something involving that thing with my tongue you like. He’s still grinning when he comes to a stop in front of some fans, taking a marker and signing some posters and hats.

You’re, admittedly, musing over his promises with some anticipation when a reporter approaches. For the most part, your lover avoids the press where he can, unkind in his opinion of the reporters that follow the every move of the grid. After a summer spoiled by a headline dragging your family into the limelight by association, you can’t say you’re too fond of them either, preferring to distance yourself whenever they’re nearby, a decision affirmed by Kyle’s protectiveness following that particular incident. 

You eye the lanyard hanging around their neck, offering a polite smile but staying silent otherwise.

“Brilliant performance out there today, mate,” the man says and Kyle thanks him easily. You spot the faint flush that sits beneath his skin, pleased at the commendation. “You made up for that grid place penalty almost effortlessly. I just wanted to ask about that overtake in turn 3, with Bernardo – you were cutting it pretty close, there, what were you thinking in that moment?”

He looks down at you for a moment, before sighing. It’s content, a weight off his shoulder – until the next weekend – and he’s ready to luxuriate in it. 

“I guess it was a bit risky,” Kyle agrees. “I took a calculated risk – I needed to get by him if I wanted P1, you know, and I knew he’d fold. At the end of the day, I’m here for the world championship, I’m not satisfied with second or third.”

“You knew he’d fold?” The reporter prompts, clearly intrigued.

Kyle nods. “Well, yeah. He’s got a wife and kids at home, it’s harder for him to give it his all when he’s got that to consider, too.”

The man’s brows raise in impressed awe at his gall, trying to hide his discomfort at those words. You try to keep your own in check as he looks over to you, gauging your reaction to Kyle’s response. It’s a product of that ruthless drive, that which makes him so desired by the grid, that which allows him to deliver on his promises on the track. 

It doesn’t mean you’re always able to stomach it.

“Right, thanks man,” he says and steps aside. “Congratulations, again. Have a good night.”

“Yeah, you too,” Kyle says, and then you’re moving again. 

You wonder, if in his journey to be the best, he’ll swallow you too.

Suzuka, Japan.

Niki is drunk.

Everyone in the VIP lounge knows it. The red flush that’s settled over his face gives him away, and the way in which he teeters on the edge of rowdiness, laughing too loud and doling out affectionate hugs  to anyone passing by as easily as breathing. It’s something they look on with amusement at, endeared by the display of sincere excitement, so at odds from the muted, mild smiles you’d receive from the other drivers were they in his position.

P2. 

Second place was, according to the current drivers’ consensus – a group of equally ambitious perfectionists – nothing to write home about. Often it made that defeat all the much harder – so close to first place, beaten by mere milliseconds. The prospect of what could’ve been rang that much louder. If only they’d pit the car earlier. If only they hadn’t pit him when they did. If only the pit crew had been just a few seconds faster. If they hadn’t gone for plan B when plan A had seemingly failed to perform. 

But Niki does not share that misery now, unencumbered by the weight of the loss. P2, and his teammate’s success in third place, has brought his team a few spots higher on the championship. A feat they now celebrate by getting extremely drunk. 

From across the room, you watch the two with no small amount of entertainment. Your own glass remains untouched in your hand, the flute sweating drops of condensation that roll down your wrist. The slightly sweet notes of your drink from the single sip you’d taken linger on your tongue, cloying, with the promise of a headache in the morning if you have any more. 

“He’s enjoying himself.” 

You close your eyes in silent defeat. 

Of course. Fool were you to think you’d seen the last of Kyle fucking Garrick.

Quiet, musing, you tense when the man, who you’d seen no sight of around the paddock the last few weeks, comes up behind you. You spare a look at him through the corner of your eye and Kyle doesn’t even bother to pretend he’s interested in Niki’s antics. 

He’s sharp in the loose jacket he wears, the collar skewed slightly enough for you to catch a glint of silver around his neck. Your breathing goes tight as he shifts towards you and you get a clearer look at the chain – still with the scuff around the clasp, which has slipped forward just below his collarbone. The sight of it involuntarily brings forth the memory – freshly twenty, a little box passed shyly over a candle-lit table. What had ensued after…

When you clear your mind enough to detach from the necklace and meet his eyes, there’s a knowing glint in them you don’t like the look of. 

“He’s got a reason to,” you say, a touch more defensively than you mean to and the heat rushes to your cheeks when he raises his brows just a touch, coolly reproaching. You clear your throat, looking back at Niki. He catches your eye from across the room and beams, tilting his head, puppy-like in his sweetness. “P2 isn’t easy.”

“It’s not first, either,” Kyle says neutrally and your lips press together, straining under the effort it takes you not to snap back. There’s still this instinct in you, you find, a remnant from the years you shared together that begs to make him see your way, so convinced if you just talked louder, found the right words –

“Three places higher than you, though,” you murmur quietly, instead. It’s petty. It’s vindictive. It isn’t the appeal you would have given him at 23. You’re something much meaner now, you’ve come to realise. Still, you relish in the way he stiffens. 

“That’s why you’re with him?” 

You burn, indignant, lips parting in defence of yourself. “Kyle –”

He leans forward, plucking the flute from your hand and depositing it on the table beside you. And then, for the first time in over five years, he touches you. Your chest strains to draw in a breath as he lays a hand on your arm, cradling the bare flesh and skimming his thumb over the skin of your forearm. It’s more tender than he has a right to, and the hair on the back of your neck stands on end. 

“I know,” he begins, slowly, as though he has thought this out for a very long time. You are too stunned to do anything but stand there and listen. “I was wrong, for how it went down. I know that now. But you deserve better than –”

He looks back over at Niki, now dancing with Markus. Or rather – at him, fist pumping and incorporating some sort of footwork into his clumsy movements. Kyle’s face tightens with disdain as he looks back to you.

“I’m not having this discussion with you,” you tell him in a voice too faint to be yours. “Not now, it’s too late.”

He shakes his head, resolute. “It’s not.”

“It is,” you insist, your throat tightening. An onslaught of tears threatens to drown you alive if he keeps talking. “We’re over, Kyle, it’s been done for a long time.”

He sighs and you flinch, ever so slightly, despite your best efforts to contain yourself. “What do you call this, then?”

Your brows draw together. “What do you mean?”

He gestures over his shoulder at your boyfriend. The room begins to take on a sweltering temperature suddenly, the atmosphere stifling. You’re seized by the sudden urge to run, but the hand around your arm squeezes, gentle, and yet brutal in its reminder – you can’t leave. Not now, not yet, and Kyle intends to use it to his advantage. He will be heard, whether you like it or not. Now, he uses the single-minded drive you’ve seen reserved for the track and you feel rather like you’ve stepped into the path of a predator.

“I haven’t seen you in all this time, suddenly you show up with a boyfriend who’s – can we be honest? I’m not being mean, darling, but –” his brows raise pointedly. “He’s a piss poor imitation of me.”

Your jaw drops. Your grief is quickly forgotten, swallowed but by red-hot anger.

“You think –” you splutter, trembling with acute rage, “you think I’m dating Niki to pretend he’s – you’re crazy.”

He tilts his head emphatically, as though imploring you to come clean, as though he’ll forgive you for the fib if you just come out with it now, and it only stirs the pit in your stomach further. Any and all hope of making nice flies out of the window in an instant, your hopes of remaining civil through the championship dissolving before your eyes.

“You forget,” you lean forward, meeting his eyes coldly, “I’d been part of this life long before you ever came into the picture, starboy. My dating life has, and will never, have anything to do with you.”

As much as you had hoped he would, he doesn’t flinch. Only leans forward and it’s pure stubborn will that keeps you from stepping back, unwilling to lose face in front of him. He smiles easily, eyes equally flinty now as he nods.

Flatly, “That’s why I haven’t seen you around then paddock for the last five seasons, then. Right.”

“You’re fucking deluded,” is all you can manage to say. Because isn’t it true, that your breakup had run you out of this world and into the corner furthest from the likes of it? You’d breathed racing before, had loved the lead up to the season, had followed it to continents so far from your London flat it had made your head spin with the jet lag. 

The two of you had joked, so many times, that if anything were ever to happen to Kyle, they’d strap you in –

The shameful truth weighs on your chest – though you’d held some reservations about returning to the paddock to support Niki, there’d been an undeniable relief the moment you’d passed through its threshold. It’d been here, in this world, amongst the dirty air and sharp scent of ozone that you’d seen through the worst and best moments of your life. The breakup had splintered more than just your heart.

And Kyle, center of it all, is well aware of it.

“Am I?” he asks. “He’s never going to give you what you need.”

“And you are?” You laugh quietly at the thought.

“Yes,” he says, so firmly it makes your head spin. 

You close your eyes, opening them again. He’s still standing in front of you, still wearing that damned chain, still looking at you as though he doesn’t intend to let you go. As though he never had in the first place.

His hand on your arm burns. There is nothing to shield you from the dry warmth of his hand, bleeding from his palm into your unsteady arm. Across the room, your boyfriend accepts a flute of champagne from his teammate, laughing bashfully as the man claps him on the back, another congratulation on their shared success today.

You should be there. You should be standing next to him and agreeing about how proud you are of him, for how far he’s come. 

But you’re here, standing in a corner away from the party, letting the biggest hurt of your life once more slip its way past your defences to make you crack. To anybody else, Kyle’s genial smile and the loose grip he has on you would look innocent. Nobody bats an eye at the both of you. Not Niki, too drunk to see straight and too trusting to foster suspicion. Not Kyle’s former partner Russo, now a shareholder for Niki’s team, whose eye you catch. He winks at you playfully before he moves into the crowd. 

To everyone else, you are only two exes, amicable now in spite of a disastrous breakup that time has dulled the edges of. The pain is blunt and heavy now, bruising. Those that had been there to witness the destruction you and Kyle had threatened only look on with momentary relief, happy to not worry about a redo.

“I don’t believe for a moment that you’re capable of that,” you whisper and it leaves a bitter taste on your tongue to realise the knowledge brings you more sadness than you had thought it would.

“You know very well what I’m capable of,” he murmurs. “I don’t think anybody knows me quite so well as you do.”

“I thought I did, once,” you agree. Niki has begun to look around but you are tethered to this spot still. “That was a long time ago.”

Kyle shakes his head, brows drawing together in a tight, insistent frown. “You knew me then, and you know me now. Maybe I’ve changed some, but the bare parts are still the same. You’ll see it soon, even if you won’t have me right now.”

You look at him then, through a blurry gaze. In the smudged light, he looks no less striking, eyes sharp and promising, posture relaxed. You had worried, all those years ago, about getting in his way. Never had you anticipated what it would be like to be his end goal. Standing under the weight of his gaze now, it sets your teeth on edge.

Kyle leans in, full lips curling up into a smile. It’s a faulty, pale version of the grin that had charmed you all those years ago, pure steel and teeth instead of the lighthearted, easy humour he’d always offered you. 

“You’ve got a lot of fucking nerve,” you breathe out, looking up at him. “Thinking I’m going to take you back.”

He shakes his head. “No. Not think.”

“You’re insane. You’re absolutely insane, do you hear me?” you say, barely able to keep your voice down. Your fingers have begun to curl into fists by your side and part of you longs to lash out and strike at him, to leave a nasty little mark down the side of his face. 

By the look in his eye, you think he’d only laugh with the blood dripping into his collar.

“That’s not a no. You let your little date touch you,” he murmurs, and your skin begins to heat at the warning threaded into his tone, “I’ll make sure it’s his last fucking season. You hear me?”

“You wouldn’t,” you mutter through your teeth, breathing hard. He only tilts his head a little, as if to say, wouldn’t I?

You’ve seen him on the track. You recall Silverstone, 23 years old and biting your nails down to the stubs for the entire 52 laps. You recall the scream that had soured on your tongue, frozen to the spot as you watched him approach a bend, too close to an opponent to continue without crashing, unrelenting in his pursuit for first place. And then – at the last minute, the other had pressed on the brakes, pulling away to avoid a collision. 

Making another driver’s life on the track difficult was nothing to a man with little to lose. 

“He’s my boyfriend,” you hiss. It’s a last ditch attempt to stand up to him. You should know better. 

“He doesn’t know what to do with you,” he shrugs. He glances over his shoulder then, surveying him thoughtfully, amused. “Neither did I, I guess, but the difference between me and him is that I do now. You don’t need him anymore.”

“You…” you breathe, appalled. When words prove difficult to find, you rip your arm out of his grasp and push away from him. The table near you rattles but you’re crossing the room hastily, cutting through the crowd to where Niki is.

When you rejoin your boyfriend, he pulls you into his side and you have to force a smile up at him. You’re sure the guilt must be written plain as day on your face for everyone to see, but he only squeezes your arm – right where Kyle had touched you, you have to fight not to flinch away from it – and boasts, proudly, when someone commends him again for his performance,

“I couldn’t have done it without my good luck charm.”

You flush when the group coos, ducking your head. You don’t deserve a bit of his praise. More, you’re discomforted by the pandering that comes out whenever he’s with an audience, like this need to hold court arises in him that almost always sees you pulled in under its tide, too. 

He pulls away from the group then and you’re led over to a less crowded corner. He looks down at you, cheeks flushed with happiness.

“P2, baby,” he breathes out. “Can you believe it?”

Your shoulders slump, misery twining itself around your spine. “Course I can. You’re brilliant, Ace.”

“Pole next,” Niki promises.

You laugh at last when he nods, grinning down so goofily at you. His hands circle your waist, resting on the small of your back, drawing you closer until you’re resting your arms around his neck. 

“Pole next,” you agree, quietly. Grey eyes twinkle under the lights and your heart aches. Movement over his shoulder catches your attention and you inhale shakily when you meet Kyle’s gaze, leaning against a far wall with a flute of champagne against his lips. His gaze is dark, promising.

When Niki murmurs your name softly, you realise you’re no better than Kyle. Not looking away, you bring your mouth to his. 

Across the room, his smile hardens. 

Game on, then. 

author's note:

We are so back divas…

It’s been longer than I thought since my last post on ao3, so I hope this makes up for it. I know I typically write Jason Todd fics, but I hope you’ll give this a chance anyway. For some incredibly sinister and evil reason (one really good fanfic) I was pulled into the COD fandom over 2024 and 25 et voila…

I’ve been working on this fic since March 2025 (after the disaster that was the 2025 F1 season opener…I still don’t want to talk about it) and I’d hoped to finish it before the season ended (not a happy camper about how the WDC turned out.) so that each chapter could come out on a race weekend but life happened (nothing so awful as the author’s curse thankfully) and I ended up extending my mental deadline several times before discarding it altogether. It’s okay, we ball!! And good things take time, so hopefully that logic applies to this, though I’m still unsure haha.

One thing F1 drivers and those COD guys have in common: none of them are all that right in the head. Idk why you’d expect anything less when you put the two together unfortunately and I do find it entertaining to write and read. I am trying my best not to have this fic read like those y/n x CEO stories but I’m aware that’s probably a given when you’re writing bullshit about super rich, super egotistic, super crazy men with dubious ethics. He drives a rocketship at lightning speeds okay there’s no reasoning with him. 

But also I think there’s something really attractive about that sort of drive (pardon the pun), how all consuming it becomes when you fall in too deep – how it quite literally becomes life or death and you’re skating on that razor thin line between the veil. There’s such a greed in ambition that, sue me, I find soo delicious. I hope I manage to do it justice.

DEFINITIONS:

PADDOCK: a sort of backstage area/village behind the team garages at races that "caters for VIP guests and team sponsors, offering luxury dining and superior views at Formula One Grand Prix events." super expensive, super exclusive and super great at reminding you how poor you are if you get general admission and get stuck in the rain like a peasant in your raincoat and poncho instead of linen button ups and cute co-ords because why would you worry about rain when you'll be indoors! 

PIT LANE: the crucial service area alongside the track where teams perform rapid tire changes and aerodynamic adjustments during a race. garage spots are placed alongside the pit lane in order of the previous years' team championship standings (constructor's championship)

QUALIFYING: qualifying is divided into three parts, in which the starting positions for the race are determined by the drivers' fastest lap times. the first qualifying session, Q1, lasts for 18 minutes, and all drivers are allowed to participate. the five slowest drivers are eliminated at the end of Q1, and their starting positions for the race are determined based on their fastest lap time during the session. the second qualifying session, Q2, lasts for 15 minutes, and the remaining 15 drivers are allowed to participate. again, the last five drivers are eliminated in the same manner. the final qualifying session, Q3, lasts for 12 minutes, and the remaining 10 drivers are allowed to participate. the driver who sets the fastest lap time during Q3 starts from pole position, with the rest of the drivers lining up behind in descending order of their lap time.

POLE POSITION: a pole position is the first starting spot on the grid for a Grand Prix race. a driver can achieve pole position during qualifying. Also referred to as P1 (other places would follow in the same order, P2, P3, etc.)

FIA: The FIA is the governing body of motor sport and the legal owner of the Formula 1 championship.

GRID PLACE PENALTY: A grid penalty will see a driver forced to drop a number of grid positions at the next race weekend they participate in.

☞ PADDOCK PASS EXTRAS

starboy ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ go for a ride ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ garrick gets the girl