He finds out that you've started university early and you brace yourself for the slant of his mouth in that queer way you've grown accustomed to from your peers – belittling, a mocking smile that precedes a compliment that isn't really a compliment. But you're left stammering over your words when his eyebrows rise and he simply grins at you, tilting his head as if to say, cool.

For some reason, unfathomable, unknown, he takes a liking to you. He cares to spend his time in your company, taking up space on your lumpy little couch, or kicking his socked feet up on your bed when your flatmates are taking up the living space. He comes round with CDs in his hands, coaxes you into whatever plans he's got for the night.

Golden, brilliant, beaming –

Beautiful.

It's disarming to be near him, to have the weight of his attention on you like this. Your university days are something of a blur to you, spent trying to keep yourself steady on a tightrope. You wake up most mornings feeling like a clay creation taken out of the kiln too early, shaped by clumsy hands and half formed, hairline fractures you're sure everyone notices, brittle creation glaring in the company of their perfect porcelain.

If he does, Kyle doesn't say a thing about it. Your oddities are the least of the older boy's concerns. In those days, he'd been more interested in coaxing you out of the house, or swaying you to let him inside.

You give him a few of your firsts – the ones that don't really matter, not compared to the others anyway.

Your first drink is with him, nineteen and screwing up your face at the taste of the too strong mojito he's ordered for you, alcohol sharp and burning as it makes its way down your throat, chest warming with the shots you take a little while after. He laughs at you, hand coming to clap you on the back playfully, where it rests for the remainder of the night.

After your first night out on the town, the both of you stumble to his place and fall asleep on the couch with half finished boxes of takeaway on the coffee table. You wake up in the morning with his shoulder pressed against yours, his long legs kicked up against the glass tabletop, the sight of his mismatched socks making you muffle a laugh despite the soreness in your neck.

These aren't that big, compared to the other firsts, the glaring ones that make it into every movie and book and show. First kisses and first times are only things you dream about sometimes. These, these firsts you have had, you guard zealously, protective. You don't even think Kyle knows – he might’ve discouraged your drinking so much that first night if he had, but you grin drunkenly up at him and think that as far as firsts go, you're glad these are with him.

You fall asleep on that couch a great many times in the years afterward and when he moves into his first proper place, he insists on bringing the ridiculous thing with him.

In the beginning, you'd suspected you were something of a pet project to Kyle. That feeling doesn't ever fully go away. Wretchedly, sometimes you liken yourself to a puppy, lingering by his side and attached to his hip like you haven't quite been house trained yet. You smile bashfully at strangers when he slips an arm comfortingly around your shoulders and introduces you.

There's always affection in his voice, but the roots of self pity are deep and you wonder whether the silent warning reaches everyone as clearly as it does you – that you're a little fragiler than the rest of them, that the words you say never seem to come out right, that you're - in your more awful moments, you think – a freak.

He tells his friends one time at a party, arm around your waist to keep you anchored – don't spend the entire night hiding in the bathroom, mate, I want you to have a good time, these are good people, you're gonna like them, promise – that you're brilliant. You think about it all night as you’re steered from friend to friend, introduced by Kyle, wondering if you're worth the praise.

There's not much about you that's remarkable, not that you can note, but Kyle beams, proud, and brags about you like you are. It muddles your mind and leaves you feeling breathless in a way you don't want to inspect too closely.

It's a long while before you give a name to this feeling, longer than it ought to take for you to realise just what it is.

It's embarrassing really, that it should take you as long as it does. You'd brushed it off as admiration, that being in Kyle's orbit had crossed your wires. You never could think clearly around him, bashful, fluttery, easily mortified.

It had felt like being 11 again, wide-eyed and the dawning understanding that you weren't the same as your peers, that they, along with you, saw the invisible markers that set you apart from them. Kyle, funny, brilliant and beautiful – it was like drawing too close to the sun. This proximity, to have him so close, to be able to reach out and touch him – he'd grinned at you the first time you'd leaned in to greet him with a hug, arms squeezing you tight before releasing you – this was not something you'd ever thought was in the cards for you.

He leaves you warm-faced and woozy, like waking up from a nap beneath the summer sun, head wool-stuffed and tongue dry. Still, you linger.

Strange, silly girl. Shame warms you when you turn your face into your pillow after he leaves your flat, skin burning against the fabric his hands had rested against only a while earlier, your mouth pressed to the cotton. The cologne he uses hangs in the air, dizzying, and disgust wars with devotion, your lips parting in an inhale.

In the dark of your room, you hold your own hand and long for something you cannot name.

Cruel thing that it is, the world does not wait for your cognizance.

Your university days come to a close quicker than they'd arrived and you're adrift once more, moored only by the temp job you somehow manage to get before graduation – it's better than nothing, and you don't have to leave London like you had expected.

And it would be fine, this job of yours, your flat that you spend an exorbitant amount to occupy, the dawning feelings you've been harbouring for close to half a decade, but–

Kyle enlists.

– and it feels like the beginning of the end.

You try not to let him see the tears but by then he knows you too well, has traced the features of your face with sharp eyes too many times to count. Every breath, every expression, every flutter of your eyes, he knows. You're a shit liar to begin with but it's impossible to get by him.

He goes in the end, of course. But he holds you in the back garden of your friends' house and doesn't say a word as you ruin his shirt, before he does.

Listen, I'll be alright, yeah? I've been thinking about this for some time. Don't look so sad, it'll be okay. They'll care of you, the guys in there – don't make that face, I wanted to tell you first, I just…I needed to get things organised, alright? I need to know you'll be alright while I'm gone. A laugh, when you scowl at him. I know you're an adult, love, just…humour me. I'll write you when I can, I promise, and I'll call.

It feels silly, knowing he'd gone to such lengths. More than ever, you feel the brittleness of your bones, the unsteady ground beneath your feet – a sweet gesture turns into a shard of glass, a reflection of your inadequacy. You long for it, this invincibility that the others around you seem to carry, a solidness, a strength you sorely lack.

If you were… more, perhaps he wouldn't have to make such arrangements. Your face is warm when you return inside, and you're conscious of the others' gazes, a gentleness in their arms when they tuck you into their side to continue what you now realise to be Kyle's send off.

Baby bird with an awkwardly formed wing, you're passed from one set of arms to another through the night, love taking the form of kid gloves. They mean well, you know they do. It doesn't leave you feeling any less of a mess.

Kyle's brown eyes dance in your periphery all night. You don't meet them, ashamed, disgusted by the wobbliness of your mouth, the ever teetering emotions that threaten to capsize you.

You realise, horrified, that it's love when someone brings out a cake covered in messily scribbled icing – Good luck Garrick! – and you meet his eyes over the glow of the candles.

Full lips stretch into a devastating grin and he ducks his head when the congregation begin to descend into a drunken rendition of For He's a Jolly Good Fellow, your voice joining the fray in a broken warble. Over the flicker of the flames, Kyle Garrick holds your heart in his hands.

It's been his all these years and you hadn't even known.

Love takes hold and continues to bloom. The world does not stop when half your heart leaves for the other side of the world. It does not stop when he comes home, if only briefly, only to slip from your fingers once more. You rue the day John Price set sight on your friend, wish that Kyle would be selfish – come back, you want to say but you have no right to this, no right to plead him to hide with you in this bubble.

The world goes on. The years pass.

In his absences – long stretches of time before he returns home, almost always bloody and never not banged up, you enter the spring of your life. It feels like a betrayal to solidify, to bloom where he cannot see, the suggestion that you were only waiting for this – that you needed the time apart to mould yourself with wet hands once more is treasonous to your lovesick heart.

The edges of you fill out. Less and less do you feel like a ghost, still strange, still peculiar, but you bloom. No longer in stasis, no longer pinned in place by an invisible something, your twenties begin to take their course. The ground beneath your feet feels firmer and Kyle –

He remains out of reach, always a hair's breadth between your fingers and the sleeve of his jacket. Homecomings are fleeting things, short, treasured, moments before he's inevitably called away.

You love him still, how could you not? But little by little, your breaths begin to even out. Life unfolds, takes shape where you thought it never would, forming around the space in your heart where he lays, anyway.

You pass a few more firsts, some inconsequential and others momentous. Sharing shy grins over candlelit tables, presses of lips to yours, a real, proper job that makes your face ache with how widely you smile at the achievement. You make friends – friends of your own. Though you love your university friends dearly, it had been Kyle who'd introduced you to them, and it's Kyle you see in their smiles when you curl up next to them, that same brand of love you miss dearly in their arms, both comforting and stifling. It seems a silly distinction, but it eases something in your chest, a lonely, wounded part that's still unsure, still a little scared this is a fluke, that this isn't yours to have, that you get what you're given, and not an inch more.

It is yours, though. It's yours, this life you've built, the friends you've made. It's yours. It makes you glow to think about it. Precious thing that it is, you don't dare to tamper with it, fearful of it shattering if you get too greedy.

Greed – you long for more, yearn for it. The world finally delivered to you, no longer an outsider looking in, surer of yourself than you've ever been, your fingertips itch to sink into it, hungry. More, more, more.

You think of dark eyes and the only smile you've ever loved like this, and you want.

Fear though, fear stays your hand. It weighs your tongue when Kyle returns to make himself at home in your flat, fixing himself a cup of tea while you choose a movie to watch. It presses you into the opposite end of your small sofa instead of his side, legs trembling when the heat of his leg presses into your thigh.

Precious, treasured, beloved. You don't dare to tamper with this.

The years have passed, the world has changed, the both of you, too, but this remains sacred. Your want remains locked in the deepest recesses of your heart – this is one thing you cannot have.

There's a clarity to the earth you see when you're a child. The grass ever verdant, fruit sweeter on your tongue, summer yawning infinite. Kyle loses that as he grows older as most often do, eyes aging, colours muting. The grey of London seeps into his awareness with startling clarity, stifling, acrid.

The day he meets you, the world flares up around him once more, ultraviolet and vibrant. Something unlatches in him, a notch undone. His ribs expand, a full, clear breath after years of pollution. Aurora lance through the air, solar flares that burn bright against his eyes.

He's preoccupied for a long time, unable to recognise this feeling for what it is. The rush of his twenties are a whirlpool, occluding his heart from him. He knows this, though. You're not much younger than him but there's a naivety to you that he finds sweet. Endearing, even. He reasons his sudden draw to you as a need to look out for you.

(It is not philanthropy that reels him to you every few days, that tugs him to the seat beside yours in the lecture theatre. It is not the responsibility of a good samaritan that desires to hear your voice, that searches for you in every room. He thinks himself a gentleman, but he isn't that kind.)

Still, there is always something that lingers, a lump in his throat that he can't ever fully dispel. It burns when he's away, when he tucks you into a corner of his mind every time he leaves London, drives him forward when he's rappelling out of a helo, free falling through the air with the scent of blood under his nose. This thread tugs him forward, keeps him coming home.

He loathes the change – adjusts poorly to the distance. It's difficult, the inability to see you, the uncertainty of wondering, more times than he'd like, if he ever will again. Homecomings are bittersweet now, every difference magnified. He burns the first time he realises you've changed your perfume – a sweet fragrance that curls inside his lungs, so different to the one you'd reached for through your university days. The intersections of your lives diverge further and further, no longer entwined like they had been before, meeting only briefly, a cache of things to catch each other up on, stories he no longer is part of but gets to hear and deliver.

You bloom tenfold each time he sees you, petals unfurling with every visit home. There are glimpses of the girl you'd been in the days when he'd been around, sweet, shy thing when you offer a bashful grin in response to his teasing. Now, he marvels at the changes, glaring, glowing .

Love makes itself known to him in the early days of his recruitment to the 141 when he wakes up in an infirmary, a little concussed, aching all over, and your name is the first out of his mouth. His captain quirks a brow, hides the twitch of his mouth in the shoe brush moustache above his upper lip.

Didn't know you had a girl back home, Garrick.

Keen blue eyes had watched him as he'd sunk back into the hospital mattress, uncomfortable, a pained scowl twisting his lips.

Not mine, sir. Not like that, anyway.

You planning on keeping it that way?

Sir?

This line of work…you don't get many chances for a do-over.

Price hadn't said much further, but those words had taken root, anchored just below his ribs. They're glaring each time he returns home, a cacophony that only grows with each year that passes. He burns, with every pass of your glances his way, fire roaring each time he reunites with the soft mass of your body, arms winding around your softness.

The changes don't matter so much then – not when the threads of his sanity steadily begin to unravel. The fibers twist and tighten, fraught with tension, fraying one by one.

When all but the last have snapped, when the leaves have turned and fallen, when the sands have trickled down, Kyle takes the last remaining thread –

sitting in the back of a bird inbound for base, the ache of a near decade of war worn deep into his bones

– and severs it himself.

"'Lo."

Your lips part in surprise and you have to bite down the surprised squeal that bubbles up your throat. Eyes widening, you barely think before tilting yourself forward into Kyle's already open arms, a laugh punching out of his chest at the collision. He staggers backwards, nearly taking the two of you down and you clutch his shoulders.

"You ass," you exclaim, stomach dipping suddenly when he pulls you so close you're forced to press up on your toes, arms squeezing you tightly. "You didn't tell me you were coming home!"

"I wanted to surprise you, didn't I?"

He chuckles and his breath tickles the skin of your neck. The smell of soap and musk, the lingering notes of his cologne on his collar reach your nose and you tuck your face against his jaw briefly, a fleeting moment for you to savour before sense washes over you and you realise what you're doing. You draw back, mortified.

Kyle doesn't say anything, only shuffling over the threshold and kicking the door shut with you still in his arms, the two of you clumsily stepping further into your flat. You're carefully let go of after a moment longer, pools of deep ochre sweeping over your features affectionately. A sweet smile plays on his lips, unrepentant in the face of your frown.

"Consider me surprised," you mutter, shaking your head. "Did the others know?"

He shakes his head. "Haven't told them yet, otherwise they'd all be coming round. I wanted to see you first."

You try, and struggle, to mask the flip your stomach does at that. "Oh."

"Yeah," he says, eyes crinkling. "You miss me?"

You'd never been a good liar and the time apart had done little to rectify that. Your face warms immediately under his attention and strained laugh makes its way into the air as you look away.

"Course I missed you, Garrick," you murmur, moving away in the direction of your kitchen. "It's not the same without you."

He follows, kicking his trainers off and trailing after you through the hall where your dinner is cooking on the stove.

"How long are you back?" you ask, drawing up to the pot, poking a fork into the softened pasta shells.

"Little while," he answers vaguely, parking himself against the counter. "Got a bit banged up so I'll be round for a bit. Captain's orders."

You whirl around at that answer, alarmed. "You're hurt?"

No compassion for your heart, he only grins. "I'm fine, love. Promise."

You regard him a little longer, lips twisted in a frown, before you let out a breath and return to your now boiling pasta. Shaking your head, you carry the pot to your sink, watching steam rise through the air as you tip the water in. In a quiet voice, you tell him, "You know I worry."

He softens then, chastised, and you have to shrug him off when he comes up behind you, still unamused. The contrite look on his face makes your heart squeeze in its chest and you look away.

"Will you go set the table?" you mutter. "This is just about done."

He presses his lips together, as though fighting the urge to say something, before nodding. You take a moment in the kitchen to collect yourself. The flat is too small to afford you any real privacy, you can feel Kyle's presence only a few strides away, but you make do, fingers tightening on your spoon as you portion the pasta onto plates, carefully arranging the food in obvious delay until you can no longer reasonably fuss over it. You carry the plates to where he's laid out the glassware and cutlery, your favourite drinks already waiting for you alongside a puppy-eyed man who holds your heart in his hands.

"Don't be upset with me," he murmurs, a hand covering yours when you set his plate down in front of him. You're anchored to his side instead of allowed to slump into your chair at the side of the table adjacent to him, and there's a plea in his wide eyes, entreating you to soften on him.

You've never quite been able to guard yourself against it. You pause, before your palm flips upwards to kiss his. Truce. His shoulders loosen and you offer a small shake of your head.

"I was just worried. I'm happy you're home."

He lets go of your hand after a moment, eyes still on you as you take a seat.

"Yeah," he mutters, softly. "Me too."

Dinner, and the company, thaws you inside out until you're warm all over, face aching with the weight of your joy. You both remain at the table long after you've cleared your plates, unwilling to move and shatter the moment – an unreasonable part of you fears he'll be called back the moment you do. Selfish, longing, you want him here with you, even if you'll have to endure the growing numbness in your bottom for it. Your legs are pulled up, folding between you and the table as you listen to Kyle talk.

He has a way of telling tales, you realise, clinging to every syllable that his lips shape, every pause, every sigh. The sound of his voice is one you'd missed these last few months, and you barely breathe as he talks himself hoarse, not wanting to lose a moment of it.

It's worse, to have his attention on you. He's unrelenting about it, insistent on catching up with every bit of your life he's missed. You pity the others that have been on the end of his interrogation, though perhaps you've gotten off lightly. You can't imagine him reaching out to fiddle with the fabric on their pants, after all, wrapping a stray thread around his finger and letting go, only to do it again. They're likely not being poured more water when their voice gives out, fingers brushing against his when he passes the glass over.

He only interrupts you once, and it's as the hour grows later, tilting his head inquisitively.

"Wait," he says and you pause. "Come on, you've got to be uncomfortable sitting like that – don't you want to move to the sofa?"

He doesn't give you a chance to stammer out a no, no I'm okay. Standing, he pulls you with him and you're tugged forward to sink into the plush cushions of your sofa. He picks your legs up to deposit them in his lap, and your fingers curl into the fabric beneath you at the closeness.

"What about the dishes?" you mutter, face flaming and he reaches forward to brush a hand over your cheek.

"Get them later," he says, voice taking on a softer quality, almost tender, even. "I missed you, I want to hear how you've been."

You affect a casual laugh, averting your gaze when it becomes too much to bear, fixing your eyes instead on the collar of his shirt. Blue, and beautiful against his deep skin. Your favourite shirt on him.

"What else is there to say," you murmur, pressing your temple against the back of the sofa, curling up against its arm. "Not all of us are falling out of helicopters and having gunfights, Garrick."

Something flashes in his eyes at that, a little laugh breathed out into the air. Your attention snags on the gleam of his teeth, the wet press of his tongue against his lips, and you’re conscious of the way your pulse throbs.

"Good," he rumbles, an arm resting over your thighs, thumb skimming back and forth over your covered knee. Heat blooms in its path, your skin warming with every pass of his finger. "You don't need to get caught up in that business. Want you safe, here."

You hum in response and he nods decisively. His shirt sleeve rides up, and you lean forward, reaching out when you catch sight of a new scar, something in your chest pinching at the sight.

"What's this?"

He lets out a breath when your finger brushes over the raised skin and your eyes flick up to his face, meeting dark eyes much closer to you than they'd been last. His breath tickles your skin and you tense at the proximity.

"Got nicked," he says, voice barely above a whisper. "Don't worry about it."

You frown, feeling your lip beginning to tremble, telltale signs of the waterworks to come in the pressure behind your eyes.

It’s been many years since your eyes had been opened to the consequences of a career such as Kyle’s. Imagination only went so far, a thin veil of protection between you and the threat of blood spilled, not quite real and easily banished. Easier to stomach, too. 

There had been scars on him you’d never seen before when Kyle had returned home after his first tour. You’d crowded close to him in the pub that night, tucked under his arm and pressed between his side and your friends, all clamouring to hear the deviltry he’d gotten up to with horrified fascination. 

Stiff with fright, stomach roiling and your drink untouched, you’d sat there and listened to the stories he’d relayed, voice a little rougher when he’d stumbled over the parts you suspected were too awful to give a name. The way his voice had grown a little thinner as the night went on, the too close encounters that he brushed over with forced lightness –

You had managed to keep it together right up until he’d taken you home, where you’d barely made it past the threshold of the bathroom before you’d thrown up. Bile and tears splattering against the porcelain, you’d kneeled over the toilet seat with Kyle’s hands smoothing over your back until your stomach had finally settled. 

Though he’d never named you as the reason, Kyle had stopped talking about his deployments soon after that. The reminder of his mortality grows more and more tender as you age, your tender heart only fraying more with each season where you had hoped it might calcify – if only enough to hide your worry from him. But even now, there is no corner of the world for you to shy away from him.

"You got hurt. How could I not worry?" Your voice pitches, upset.

So quickly the night threatens to take a turn, but he keeps steady, shaking his head, forehead tipping forward to press against your temple. Unshed tears burn your eyes as you press your face into his neck, trying to compose yourself.

"It's nothing, I've had worse," he tries to soothe and it only hollows the pit in your stomach. You make a noise, trying to rear back, but his hand has come to loop around your waist, keeping you close to him. Another settles on the back of your neck, warm, heavy, grounding.

"How is that meant to make me feel any better?" you demand, fingers reaching up to curl into the fabric of his shirt. He pulls back slightly and you loathe the calm on his face, the stillness that only regards you gently.

"I'm here, aren't I?" he tells you, and you scowl at that, trying to pull back. He doesn't let go. "Look at me – love, look. I'm fine. I'm home."

"You're hurt."

"It's always gonna be a risk of the job, you know that," he says quietly. Doesn't offer you platitudes, and you don't know if you wish he would or not. Your heart is too tender to bear the thought of him hurt but any placation would make you bristle. Perhaps because you know they can’t be relied on. There will always be another cut, another scar you only learn about inadvertently, wounds hidden to you but their weight evident when Kyle comes home favouring his side, uncharacteristically careful when he holds you instead of his usual exuberance. "But I'm always gonna come home to you. Haven't let you down yet, have I?"

It feels heavier, somehow, this proclamation. Like there's something you're not reading in his tone, dipping slightly, sober. But you get caught up on the words – the fallibility of such a promise.

"What about –" your voice catches in your throat, fingers fisting the shirt under you. "What about when it's in a box? Am I supposed to be happy then?"

He takes a moment too long to answer and it terrifies you when his eyes turn gentler. It's not something he hasn't already given thought. You're pushing at him before you can think, staggering off the sofa to storm into the kitchen. You can barely stand to look at him a moment longer.

Kyle only gives you a minute before he's after you. You're reaching for the sponge, wet fingers scrubbing at the pan you'd left to soak in the sink. Face twisting to hold back your tears, your hand curls tightly around the metal handle.

Warmth at your back, hands bigger than yours coax the pan back into the sink, guiding your hands under the water to wash away the suds. He doesn't say a word, head pressing into the back of your neck, thumbs swiping down the centre of your palm to wash the bubbles away.

When he speaks, the timbre of his voice breathy, you can feel the brush of his mouth against your skin.

"You'd be taken care of. I wouldn't do that to you, leave you alone like that."

Your fingers curl into fists under his, knuckles bumping against his palm. "That's not – that's not what I want, Kyle. I–"

"Will you look at me?" He turns you around anyway, hands sliding to your hips. The counter is hard against your spine as you press backwards, but he doesn't give you much room to escape him.

You stare at him and it's as though the years pass through you in a blink. Kyle fills out before your very eyes, bigger, more commanding. The boy you met at university ripples, invisible hands carving and moulding. Despite the near decade he's spent away from you, you'd always managed to cling to the image of him as he'd once been – genial, the sun in his eyes, sleeping on your couch and pressing his head against yours under awnings when the rain pushed you off the streets. Water dripping from your eyes, the two of you had laughed despite the chill clinging to your clothes.

You see it now, the man you'd caught glimpses of in the moments in between. The serious, intense set of his mouth, eyes darker than night. A reflection of a quiet emotion in his gaze. It's one you know well. It resides in the dark hollow of your chest, locked tightly away.

Kyle makes no such attempt at inhibition.

"What are you doing?" you whisper when he tilts his head downward.

Panic rears its head, doomsday too close for comfort. Desire is destruction – you're certain of it. And you want to tell him no, don't, Kyle, your worst fears poised to strike with the closing distance between your lips and his, but you long for it all the same, trembling in his arms.

"Relax," he breathes against the corner of your mouth, lips pressing into your skin sweetly. It's still damp where your tears had slipped down, and the wet press of his tongue makes your knees weak, gripping the fabric of his shirtsleeves. "You worry too much."

He dips his head, nose carving a burning trail down the slope of your jaw. Heat blooms where he touches. Your hips, your neck, your face. You're aflame, loose-limbed and weak, so close to him. He keeps you upright, hips pressing yours against the counter.

You can barely mutter a response before he continues. Perhaps he doesn't mean for you to speak at all. His words reach you thickly, a veil over you that he peels back only slightly. Disoriented, you blink at him.

"Such a sweet girl," he says quietly, ghost of a kiss pressed to your throat. "So good to me, fussing over me all the time. Course I wouldn't leave you alone – wouldn't do that to you. 'M going to take care of you – always been mine to take care of…"

"Kyle," you whisper, eyes slipping closed, and he thumbs away another tear that rolls down your cheek, chasing the salt smudge with his lips.

"Haven't always been here, haven't told you, but I'm making good on it now," he professes, pulling back. You open your eyes, meeting blurry ochre pools. "Such a good girl, waiting for me – always known, haven't you? Knew you were mine. My girl."

When he kisses you, the little thought that you'd been capable of slips downstream. You cling to the solidness of him, fingers biting into hardened muscle, jewel toned lenses over your eyes. Twilight shimmers over the small space of your kitchen and your best friend puts his mouth to yours like they should have never been apart.

You've been kissed before. Overeager, wet swipes of mouths, hot breath against your cheek that had carried the hint of wine. But this –

Kyle breathes life into you anew, soft mouth sliding against yours and you shudder. The soft scrape of his stubble against your chin makes you squirm, letting out a little gasp into his mouth. Greedy, he swallows it, tongue brushing against the seam of your lips, coaxing you open.

He mumbles something, a sighed Fuck, that slides around your shoulders and slips down your spine, pooling in the bottom of your stomach. Amber flickers in your periphery, heady, low lit want shrouding you.

How long you stand there, letting him forever change the bounds of your relationship, you don't know. He licks at your mouth like you've syrup behind your teeth, traces of his tongue smeared over your bottom lip. The very air around you shifts with his touch, fingers curling against your spine, spanning up to cradle your jaw, to open you up for him.

You're breathing hard when he pulls away, dizzy, unmoored. Up close, you can make out the thin ring of his irises, a shade lighter, inscrutable to most, known dearly to you.

No words are spoken when he leads you down the hall. On shaky legs, you let him guide you to your bedroom. The glow of your lamp greets you, and Kyle muffles his knowing laugh into the curve of your neck, teeth ghosting over the thin skin.

The shirt and trousers you have on suddenly feel lightweight and you gaze up at him through watery eyes when he turns you around. Gooseflesh ripple over your skin, and his fingertips graze the skin of your stomach, dipping below the hem of your shirt. Slow, so slow, he drags it up with deliberateness until it's lifted off your torso.

A beat passes in which you both stare at the other, silent. Kyle remains clothed and you, with trembling fingers, bring your hands to his chest. The beat of his heart travels through layers of skin and fabric to meet your fingertips, picking up when you take a half-step closer.

"You can–" he cuts himself off, inhaling shakily. He whispers, "You can take it off."

You look up at him. He meets your unsure gaze with a nod, almost solemn if not for the tender creases around his eyes, soft russet irises gazing down at you with a familiarity that settles over the raised flesh on your arms like a blanket.

Warmth pools in your face when you dare, even with his instruction, to take hold of his shirt. Under his watchful gaze you feel rather on display. It brings forth a swell of embarrassment – this is Kyle, but a shade of him previously unknown to you and in your own place stands a rabbit-hearted girl once more, your inexperience seeming to you to be written all over your face.

As if he's able to read your mind, Kyle bends forward to press his head to yours, nosing against your cheek comfortingly. It's reminiscent of the turn your nights out would take, long past midnight and the warmth in your belly from the liquor dwindling into restless laughter. Kyle, leaning his weight into you, a heavy arm slung over your shoulder on the walk home. Where you'd spend the night was dependent on whoever's flat was closest to whatever takeaway place you'd inevitably find yourselves in afterwards, hungry and getting into a drunken scuffle with the older boy when you would attempt to pay.

You'd won once, taking advantage of Kyle's distractedness at spotting your other friends on the way in and slipping inside to place your order, though sometimes you still suspected he'd let you.

The whisper of your name reels you through time back to this moment, now, and you meet the questioning set of your best friend's brows.

"What?" he's smiling, as though you're withholding a joke from him that he longs to be part of. You realise it to be in response to your own smile, unconscious and affectionate.

You shake your head, a breathy laugh expelled from your lips. Love bolsters your resolve and with renewed purpose, you grip the hem of his shirt. Bit by bit, he bares himself as you had until you stand in front of each other shirtless, chests rising and falling in tandem.

Your eyes track along the shadowed marks of injuries past, rippled, raised skin that makes your heart twist until he descends upon you once more, soft mouth claiming your attention to drive it through –

I'm here. I'm still here.

All at once you are brought back, hyperaware of the press of his chest against yours, the edges of him slotting against yours. You move in between breaths. One moment, you are standing and the next he has you settling down against the sheets, the softened linen of your untouched bed cool against your flushed skin.

He hovers over your form, a vision in amber light. You let him drag your trousers down your hips, every patch of skin exposed to the air rippling with gooseflesh, warmed once more when he bows to press his mouth against you. The softness beneath your navel jumps under his touch and he muffles a snicker against your hip, fingers petting the crease of your thigh.

When he begins to unbutton his own pants, you will your sluggish limbs to move, unclasping your worn bra with trembling fingers and dropping it over the side of your bed. Before your courage fails you, you push your underwear off too.

For a moment, Kyle pauses in front of you to stare, jeans halfway down his thighs. Nervous, your hands twitch by your sides, the urge to cover yourself growing stronger until he lets out a heavy breath, returning to undressing himself. There's a touch of urgency to his actions, pushing his clothes off uncaringly. You glow with pleasure when you realise it's so he might return to you faster.

He kneels at the side of the bed once more and greets you with a kiss like he's been parted from you for an age. You suppose he has been. This reunion feels different, charged with all the things you never said, that now lay out in the open, your vulnerabilities splayed for him to see. His own, in turn, are made known to you.

Kyle's hands cradle your face as he kisses you, big palms pressing down against your cheeks, fingers spanning your jaw and nape to draw you closer against him. The first brush of your bare chest against his has your breath hitching, gasping against his smiling mouth.

He lowers himself against you and it's then that you feel the length of him press into your thigh. You tense beneath him in surprise and ever attuned to your mood, your best friend draws back from you. The thought of him retreating has you leaning forward to cling to him, circling your arms around his shoulders.

He nearly loses his balance, planting a hand beside your head to steady himself. The other comes to your back, warmth suffusing through you under his touch. When you tuck your face into his throat, closing your eyes, Kyle curls himself over you more protectively.

"What's up?" he whispers. "You okay? We don't have to –"

You cut him off. "I want to," you insist, lifting your head to gaze at him through widened eyes. His features slacken, shoulders dropping where they'd tensed. He strokes your cheek gently, eyes searching your own.

"Then what is it?"

It feels embarrassing to admit to him when you've always felt like his little shadow, head tipped always in search of him and his exploits. In comparison your own are…not bare… but middling, perhaps. A late bloomer, your life placed on a slow burner.

"I haven't ever…"

His response comes in rapid, stunned blinks. As though he hadn't expected it, as though he finds it difficult to believe – who would I even do it with, you want to ask, surprised by his disbelief.

"Never?" he questions, voice pitching ever so slightly. You roll your bottom lip inwards, teeth worrying the skin of it as you shake your head.

"Oh," Kyle says, soundly oddly strangled. You hesitate, feeling as though your confession has soured things between you – had he been expecting something else? Did this change things?

You're beginning to gather the courage to voice this when he lets out a breath and shifts closer, thumb resuming its path across your cheek where it'd frozen in the wake of your admission.

"You don't know what you do to me, do you," he mutters, exasperatedly, dropping his forehead against yours. The air between you seems to lighten exponentially and you brave a smile, huffing out a nervous laugh.

After a bit, Kyle admits, "It's been a while for me too."

Your turn to be surprised, now. You look up at him and meet unlaughing eyes, almost shy in extending this branch.

"What, you never…" you stumble over your words, unmoored. "In all those cities you visited –?"

At that, Kyle's lips tug down into a displeased frown and he snips, though without heat, "Wasn't there for pleasure, was I?"

His eyes avert to something off to the side momentarily and he mumbles, "Work, y'know…And it's not like I was going to–" Suddenly flustered, he shakes his head, grumbling, "Whatever. Doesn't matter."

You fight back a smile, endeared, reaching up to press your lips to the corner of his own. The tension in his face slips from his as though snagged by a current, lost to the water, and he tilts his head, sighing into your mouth.

You stay like that for a moment and it feels as though you've shifted lenses, switching out the old for newer, sharper ones. The readjustment comes in shades, in soft kisses and the odd, pleased giggles you don't manage to stifle, giddiness stirring in your chest.

"Can I have you?" he asks through swollen lips, voice rough. You've all but melted back into the mattress, head cloudy. Need pools between your legs, desire smearing between your thighs.

You want to tell him he's had you . That you've been his since you were 18 and he smiled at you in the lecture theatre. That in every interaction thereafter, in whatever shape or form, you have always been his.

That the seasons have come, passed by and arrived again, that you've begun to discover new aches in places you had not thought were possible, that the ice is melting and there is a hole in the sky and the world has been turning and through all of it, it comes down to this –

You have always been his.

In the end, though, all that comes out is a simple, "You do . "

A shudder rolls through him at that. Kyle closes his eyes briefly, before surging forward to claim your mouth.

The hand on your jaw holds you to him firmly and Kyle kisses you with a vengeance. It is so distinct from the gentle press of his mouth, the slow, languid brush of his tongue over yours – this is burning. This is the weight of time passed, the culmination of the years away and stewing desire.

He bears down on you, every edge of him pinning you to the mattress as he steals your breath. You are emptied of all thought, reduced to muffled gasps and the noises he plucks from your mouth unthinkingly. It comes to him as easy as breathing, yet another skill he picks up effortlessly.

His fingers trace over your stomach. Down, over your sides and to your navel, repeating the route when your breath hitches and you shudder beneath him, muscles jumping after he brushes over a sensitive spot. His lips curve into a smile against yours and you gasp, but he does not relent. Not until you begin to whine, wrapping your hand around his wrist to push it further down.

He takes pity on you, tweaking the skin of your hip and letting out a little laugh that slips into your mouth, sinking on your tastebuds. It tastes rich, salt and thyme settling on your tongue.

The crease of your thigh is next to receive his ministrations, the sweeping path he carves from your hip stalling just a few breaths shy of where you long for it the most. By now, you've begun to drip steadily, you're sure of it, want bleeding into the sheets beneath you. When you press your thighs close, they glide together and you hear Kyle grumble above you.

It's the only warning you're given before he's pressing your legs open, a hand settling on the inside of your thigh and guiding it outwards and up, until it's slung around his hip and you're bare to him.

He pulls away from you then, eyes hazy and flickering down to where only inches separate the two of you. A breath punches out of his chest and he groans, eyes fluttering closed briefly. It's an expression you've never seen on him before, one you drink in with soft fascination, eager to be let in on another side to the person you love the most. When it comes to Kyle, you find yourself unendingly curious, always conscious of him. You can't help it – you've been attuned to his every breath since you were 18.

This devotion, you learn, is not rebuffed but met with equal vigour. Dark eyes fall on you and you have only a moment to blink up at him before a noise tumbles from your lips at the press of fingers at your entrance. The blunt press against your cunt makes you squirm, mouth falling open at the slight sting that comes with the stretch of your channel. Your vision swims and Kyle, split in two, lets out a breathless laugh.

The hand holding your leg pets your skin gently, but you can only feel the insertion of his digits – bigger than your own, certainly – where, only in your most gone moments, you'd dreamt of them touching. Reality is blunter than daydreams, and Kyle shushes you a little, dropping his head to kiss you again when you begin to whine.

"So noisy," he tuts gently, but there is only amusement in his tone. You turn teary eyes to him – when had you begun to cry? It's mortifying. He doesn't seem to mind, only pressing his lips to your wet cheek. "It's late, baby, you've got to keep quiet."

How can you be quiet when he has you like this? When the man you have loved for nearly a decade is hovering above you, his hands on you – in you – looking down on you as though he's been starved. When the stuff of your most shameful dreams, your most wretched desires, has not only come home to roost but longed for you, too?

It is so different from those days, young and wandering the late night streets, on your way to let Kyle claim a shade of you. But here, all these years later, once more he takes a first of yours and the length of time thins until only a thin veil separates you from back then. You are so different, yet entirely the same; both the tender hearted girl and the woman steadfast in your new life.

It leaves you vulnerable and panting, tilting your face up to Kyle when he replaces his fingers with something bigger, the blunt stretch of his cock against your insides carving your breath from you with every rock of his hips. You cling to him for purchase, disoriented and dizzy. Eyes streaming, no matter how he shushes you, cradles you as the thrusts come harder, until you're jolting with every drive forward.

His brows knit together, his fingers grip your leg, the other slipping beneath your neck to hold you close. Gone is the boy who'd laughed with you and in his place, bullying your body to another orgasm – the first having arrived embarrassingly quickly after only a few strokes of his fingers – the man who'd cornered you in the kitchen to claim your mouth as his.

The sounds you're making are foreign to your ears, strangled moans, gasps that sound entirely out of place in your bedroom. Mewls too breathy to be your own – the kind you'd always thought to be a practiced form, spilling from you in repeated oh, oh – oh! 's that have Kyle goading you on, greedier with every passing second, control steadily unravelling.

It has you searching for something familiar – something known to tide you through this new, sudden change, brilliant and wonderful and terrifying. You look up through your tears, at your best friend and you beg him.

"Ky–Kyle," you whine and he dips his head forward, cooing, nosing at your cheek.

"Yeah, baby," he murmurs, sweat dripping from his brow and onto the pillow beside you. "Yeah, it's me, it's – fuck – 's me."

Him, making you feel this good. The pride of it all makes him preen, you can see it. Pure, masculine pride that you might've ribbed him for in another instance. Now, your eyes only roll back a little more, his name slipping from your lips again. You're in desperate need of an anchor, overwhelmed by the cacophony of noise in your head – you'd let him do whatever he wanted, but you needed –

"What's it, hm?"

"Need –" your breath hitches, skittering over a hiccup, utterly pitiful. "Can I –"

"What, baby?" his breathing is ragged, but he folds himself over you further, forehead pressing against yours. "Tell me."

"Kiss me," you manage to choke out, lips turning down, pleading and his hips stutter. "Please, I –"

He doesn't make you ask twice, only pulling you by the back of your neck up to him in a clumsy kiss. He kisses you like you need – like he knows you need. The hand on your neck slides up to cradle your cheek, and Kyle kisses you like he loves you, like he's breathing every bit he'd hidden in the years away into you.

And you know this, winding your arms around his neck and holding him close, until the two of you are flush and the only thing he can manage is to grind his hips into yours, reduced to a desperate tilt of his hips and the press of his mouth against yours. You know this –

He loves you, he does.

He always has.

He tells you as much when you ask him, in the quiet after you've come together, his cum sticky on your thighs and your chest pressed against his. Your limbs are loose, your head heavy above his heart. Fingers that had gripped your thigh rub apologetic circles into the sore flesh, and you look up at him.

"Did you mean it?" you ask, and he sits up a little to kiss your shoulder.

"Meant everything I said," he affirms, steady. Then, glancing away briefly, he asks, "Did you…when you said you were mine.."

You offer him a wobbly smile. "Yeah. Since we were 18, I think."

He lets out a breath, and the arm around your waist tightens. "Long time."

"It is." You bite your lip. "Is that okay?"

The smile he gives you is rueful. "Just pissed I kept you waiting so long."

"You're here now," you say, through a yawn. Kyle rucks up the blanket a little closer over your shoulder, kissing your head. You lay back down against his chest and you fiddle with the tags on his necklace. "And I…I don't know, it never felt like that."

He makes a questioning noise and you loop the metal chain around your finger.

"Dunno," you mumble. "You were gone so often, but I never felt like you were gone – from me. Not in that way. Am I making sense?"

Kyle's chest shakes a little with suppressed laughter, and it makes you huff, pressing your face to his chest to hide the smile he draws from you. "Not a bit, baby."

"I just," you pause, thinking over it. "I never felt like I didn't have you, even if it wasn't romantically."

He’s silent for a moment, long enough that the heaviness of your eyelids begins to weigh them down with no conversation to delay it further. When he answers you next, you’re startled a little by the sound.

“Good,” he says, squeezing you. His hand strokes a path over your shoulder, knuckles briefly caressing your cheek. “You did, you know. Have me.”

“I love you,” you whisper, emboldened and his hand stutters, before resuming its path.

“I love you,” he echoes, hushed. And then, just as you’re succumbing to your dreams again, a secret you only just manage to catch, he confesses something to you once more. 

“I always have, I reckon.”

this fic was conjured up when i went camping in the outback in the dead of winter last year. i was mad and cold and hungry and i ended up kind of cutting off a near decade of friendship afterwards, which is funny because reader in this is doing really well with her own decade long friendship.

anyway this took me nearly ten months to write because i find writing smut so difficult and i wanted it to be more purposeful about the emotions or whatever, because the main thing i had to go off when i was daydreaming about this scenario was the idea of letting someone you love do whatever they want to you but needing that reassurance that they still love you - tilting your head up and begging for them to kiss you because you could bear anything (even scary, if years-long desired, change) with that anchor.

so um. i hope it translated from my cold + hangry + coping mind to paper well. this is my first proper proper gaz (and cod!) fic and i'm a little nervous because i want to get him right. i hope it's received well!! he's so beautiful i am forever yearning for more fics about him, and i hope my contribution to that is good!!

the playlist for this:

The headset in his ear notifies him of an incoming call, the syllables of your name dulled by the clinical, robotic voice of his phone's intelligence system. His mouth curves up into a smile beneath his helmet.

"Hi, baby," he answers immediately. "I'm on my way home, you need anything? I just left the store but I can go back–"

You cut him off in a tight voice. Later, he'll be ashamed that the first thing that comes to mind is, not another fucking postponement. Now, his brows furrow at your tone, stomach dipping uncertainly when it becomes clear that this is something more serious.

Your voice wobbles, high-pitched and tearful. At the same time, the dash on his bike begins to flash in rapid succession, the paging system he'd installed for the bats to communicate with him glaring back at him, blood red.

ORACLE: CHEMICAL LEAK DOWNTOWN. BATS + R.ROBIN EN ROUTE. ALL UNITS STANDBY.

His dread plummets and for a moment his throat closes over. You're speaking to him but he struggles to make it out through the ringing in his ears.

"Jason, I'm – I'm home but I don't – I don't know what to do."

He bites back a curse and tries to swallow the lump in his throat, grappling for words of comfort.

"It's okay," he soothes, straining to keep his voice level. "Listen, sweetheart, can you go lock the door for me? I'm – shit – I'll be home soon, alright? It'll be okay. We'll fix it."

He doesn't give himself time to linger on the call after you confirm you've locked it, barking out a command to dial Oracle that his system fails to pick up twice, only registering after he steadies himself.

She picks up on the third ring. It irritates him how unfazed she sounds when he explains the situation to her. He hears the click of her keyboard in the background, the hum of her monitors. Each passing second as she patches through to Nightwing is agony and the slow crawl of traffic does little to help.

His leg has begun to jostle the bike with the weight of its shaking when she returns to their call.

"You're not going to like this," she says and he feels the bile rising in his throat.

"What." He grits it out through his teeth, unable to manage much more than that. He hears Oracle sigh.

"Looks like an aphrodisiac," she says clinically. "Her plan was to get them caught compromised enough to lose credit publicly."

"Oracle." She hears his growl for what it is – Tell me whether or not it's over.

"It's non-lethal," she affirms and he sighs harshly. The tightness in his chest loosens ever so slightly as she talks. "Ivy let it off near city hall because most of the shareholders were scheduled to hold a meeting – that's where your girl works, right? Alf's working on an antidote but she should be relatively fine until it's ready. Just – keep an eye on her."

Tim joins the line then and Jason startles at the sound of his voice in his ear.

"I don't know what the fuck she wanted to achieve," the boy grumbles. He's a little out of breath and in any other situation, Jason would have something to say about that. Tonight, he's not in the mood for jokes.

"Red," he barks out. The kid makes a distracted noise, and he can hear the sounds of a scuffle on the other end. "You tell Ivy if anything happens to my girl, I'll make sure she's next."

He doesn't wait to hear what's sure to be a non-committal answer at best, kicking off and veering between the lined up vehicles. There's an outroar from the drivers around him, laying on their car horns. Someone pokes their head out of their window to scream at him.

He hears none of it, the blood rushing in his ears keeping him single-minded.

This string that twines him to you isn't new. It wears signs of age, shows the years in the way his fingers reach for yours in the early moments of his day, the turn of your eyes to his in any room. He's seen a few summers with you at his side but the fear –

Blood, coagulating, the cold brush of death, splintered wood beneath nails and a haunting smile

– the fear never stagnates.

A bitter, resigned shard of him breathes out as he speeds through the streets. A veritable sword over his crown, this almost seems expected. Loathing colours the skyline and he, the fool, to think he could hold this one, precious, beloved thing unscathed.

He forgoes the groceries in his haste, leaving the bags in his haste to throw himself up the stairs and out of the parking garage. Pulse thundering in his ears, sweat coating his palms, he scrabbles with the key to your shared apartment.

The door flies open and a hand is grabbing him by the front of his shirt before he can slot it through the lock.

You, wild-eyed and frantic, pull him inside with a bitten off sob.

"Shh, shh, I'm here, come here."

He kicks the door shut, reaching behind him to flip the locks with one hand. The other curls you protectively to his chest, fingers splaying over your back. The sight of you calms him considerably and he chokes out a stuttered breath, the lump in his throat dissolving to give way for a flood of relief.

You're burning in his arms, the thin undershirt you've got on soaked through with sweat, face glowing with perspiration. Eyebrows knitted, you cling to him tighter and he finds himself making noises of comfort.

"Jason, I –"

"Shh. I know, honey, I know," he murmurs, pressing his forehead against yours. Your eyes are tearful, salt spilling over lashes and rolling down your cheeks. "Come on, let's get you to lie down."

"No," you whine, pitching miserably as he shuffles the both of you towards your bedroom, face creasing with every movement. "Hurts."

"I know," he whispers, hating the way his voice cracks. His eyes burn painfully. "'ll get you a towel, alright?"

You're deposited on the bed and he makes a turn for the bathroom, wetting a cloth. When he enters the bedroom again you've pushed yourself up, kneeling on the bed. You've shed the pants you'd worn earlier, left now in only and undershirt and your underwear. His name falls from your lips pitifully and he steps forward, lips turning down into a commiserating frown.

You shy away from the cloth when he presses it against your forehead, letting out a hiss as it makes contact with your burning skin. He brings a hand to the nape of your neck and you seem to like that much better, sighing under his touch. Jason takes advantage of this to keep you in place, mopping the sweat off your face and neck, trying his best not to give into your dissatisfied squirming.

"I know, I'm an asshole," he mutters, when you cry out his name, displeasure making itself clear on your face. "Get better so you can yell at me for it, alright?"

"Don't wanna – yell at you," you mumble, wetting your lips as they part.

He clocks the dilation of your pupils a little too late and shakes his head adamantly, trying to draw back but you've got a hold of his shirt, pulling him forward. He catches himself with a hand agains the headboard, a knee pressing into the mattress beneath him.

You stare up at him, mouth turning down into a pained grimace.

"C'mon honey," he mutters, pleading, feeling his face flood with warmth. "Don't do this to me. Be good, you'll be alright, okay? Any minute they're gonna call and tell me Alf's got an antidote ready – shit, maybe we should just drive you there now -"

"No," you sob, face crumpling under the weight of your tears again, pushing up on your knees to fling your arms around his shoulders. The effort of the movement makes you stutter out a gasp and he's forced to band an arm around your waist to steady the both of you.

Your tears wet the skin of his neck, your body pressed flush against his. He becomes aware, regrettably, of the skin beneath his fingers, your undershirt having ridden up to expose the softness of your lower back.

"Please," you hiccup into his shoulder. "Please, Jason – Please."

He'll have to ask Oracle later if second-hand exposure to the toxin is supposed to have an effect on him. At the touch of your chest to his, he feels himself warm all over, mouth drying when you begin to keen, arching up into his touch in an effort to get him to do something.

"Fuck," he curses. "Fuck. Alright, just – come here."

He kicks his shoes off, the sneakers clattering against the floor, and crawls onto the bed properly. Sat up against the headboard, he meets your baleful gaze with a raised brow and reaches for you.

Jason shakes his head when you go to straddle his lap, maneuvering you against his chest until your back rests against it. You let out a whimper, displeased, but he shakes his head.

"This is all you're getting, alright? Just – it'll tide you over until they call."

He spreads your legs until they hang over his own, your thighs bracketing his and leaving you open. His blood thunders in his ears, hand trembling as he reaches it up to your mouth, fingers prodding at the soft plush of your lips.

Your tongue laves at his digits, a muffled moan trapped in the recesses of your throat. One of your hands curls around his wrist, the other perching against his thigh, nails curling against the fabric of his jeans. He can feel you shift against him, hips canting ever so slightly over his own.

Awful, wretched, lecherous, he stiffens under the movement, jeans tightening. His free hand wraps around you hip with the intent of pinning you in place and stopping you. Somehow, he finds himself guiding you back and forth instead.

You tip your head back against his shoulder, baring the soft line of your throat as you drool around his fingers. He can feel the wetness pooling around his knuckles, the softness of your ass against him, separated only by a few layers. If he cranes his neck, he'll probably find your panties sticky with your need. The thought alone makes his eyes flutter.

The room is blanketed in muffled whimpers, the whispers of rustling sheets and his shaky breaths. You've quietened down some since he'd gotten his fingers in your mouth, but the heat seems to have returned with a vengeance when you begin to fuss in his lap again. Your fingers dig into his thigh and you whine, tugging at his wrist in an effort to push his hand where you need it most.

He hushes you with a squeeze to your hip and tips your face to meet his. Bleary eyed, silvery tracks smattered across your cheeks, you're struggling to hold on. He lowers his mouth to yours, a chaste kiss that deepens when you part your lips to lick into his mouth.

"Jason, come on."

"No, don't take it off," he whispers when your hands make to tug your underwear off. You whine and he hushes you again, "Shh, I'm going to take care of you, be patient for me, alright?"

He slips his fingers beneath the waistband of your panties and watches you shudder at the first swipe. Similarly affected, he feels himself twitch when his fingers make contact with the soft slickness of your flesh, gliding against silken folds.

"Oh," you sigh, sagging slightly into him.

"There you go." He presses a kiss to your sweaty temple, trying to pretend this is just another night together and he's being a loving boyfriend, that you're not delirious with want just because of the toxin running through your bloodstream. "That's my girl."

He presses gentle circles against you, closing his eyes and ghosting his mouth over the curve of your shoulder. The smell of sex is thick in the air, that heady musk and sweat that he could drown in. Your breaths come in pants now as he works you open gently, thumb rolling over your centre.

"Just like that," he rumbles, straining to keep his head on straight. It's difficult, when you arch against him, his name spilling from your lips in adoration coloured mewls. Your arm raises, curling behind you to embrace his neck.

It doesn't take you very long to come, pent up and sensitive – he discovers this when his hand grazes over your chest to stroke your face and you keen so loud he fears he'll come in his pants at the sound, your mouth, bitten raw, dropping open as you moan. A few strokes against your centre and you come apart in his arms, hard. The tremors wrack your body long after the fact, your core pulsing around his fingers.

He, ever the fool, expects this to sate your hunger.

Whatever Ivy's put in her newest concoction is potent. You gather your breath quick enough and it becomes apparent that just the one isn't nearly enough. He's pushed back against the headboard, stunned into silence as you clamber onto his thigh, pawing at him like you can't get close enough.

You struggle with the fabric of his shirt before giving up and any questions he has sputter off into silence when you begin to rock back and forth on him. The denim of his jeans is unforgiving against the thin, sodden material of your underwear, providing a harsh friction that you lose yourself to. He watches, his heart racing, you taking your pleasure for yourself.

It isn't as though you've never done this in front of him – he remembers, blurry, the aftermath of a dinner date that had seen you riding his thigh on the couch, still in your dress.

But this… This feels different.

There's an urgency to this, a franticness running beneath your skin that pushes your hips down harder, more unforgiving. Your face screws up, salt misting your cheeks and neck.

For a moment, Jason almost feels as though he's the one that's been hit. You take on a blurry quality, smudged around the edges like wet paint, wanton, hazy. A gauzy film over his eyes, he blinks, and blinks.

When you come once more, it shatters and he's aware of the stain that's bled into the dark denim on his thigh, a stickiness that's smeared between your thighs. Your panties are ruined and he gulps when he drags his gaze up from between your legs to your face.

Quiet, hungry, you're already staring at him. Your chest heaves with exertion but you remain still otherwise, lips parting in invitation, eyes half-lidded.

"Baby–"

"You said you'd take care of me," you intone beseeching, voice affecting a trembling, delicate quality.

Fuck.

He's never been good at denying you much. Already, he feels the urge to take you into his arms and promise to make it better, but he forces his hand to stay, curling his fingers in the bedsheets.

You crawl forward, until your lips are ghosting over his, eyes swallowing his field of vision until all he can see are the stars in your irises. He feels the

"Jason, please, it still hurts," you whimper quietly, a wounded noise that carves him from the inside out, guilt and shame poisoning his every nerve. He's at war with himself, wanting to ease your pain – he feels responsible for it, in a way – and hesitating similarly. Is this right? Is it okay?

Before he can come up with an answer, you press your mouth to his.

The last of his inhibitions crumbles completely under the plush of your mouth.

He rolls the both of you over, relishing in the gasp you let out, the sight of you splayed against the mattress. He's quick to divest himself of his clothes, tugging his shirt off recklessly, not minding the sound of ripping fabric he vaguely registers hearing. The jeans go next, and his underwear in one, flung to some corner of the bedroom.

Your spit slick mouth curves up into a delighted, drunken smile when he crawls over you, body eclipsing yours with every intent of ravishing you.

Jason holds himself up with one hand, the other reaching to the bedside table and rummaging in the drawer for the box he keeps there. Only, he comes up short and dread dawns over him in a cold wave when he remembers –

He'd used the last of the condoms a few nights ago. It hadn't mattered in the last couple of days, the weekend too busy for the both of you to do much else but curl up next to each other, too exhausted to consider working up a sweat.

"Fuck," he whispers, shaking. "Fuck, baby, there aren't, um…"

Your eyes fill with tears at the unfinished sentence, a hiccuped sob stuttering out of your chest.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," he tries to soothe you, a hand smoothing down your face. "I'll just – I'll run to the store, I'll be back before you know it."

"No, please, just–" Watery eyed and upset, you tug him closer as though fearing he'll take off. "I don't care, I don't, I just – I need you, Jason. Please."

He stares at you, heart thundering in his ears. "Fuck you without –"

"Need you now," you whimper, lips tugging down pitifully into a pout that cuts through his chest.

It isn't as though this is his first time fucking you raw –

Tipsy laughter, hushed whispers of it's fine, just once, we'll get the morning after pill.

– but still. This is different, another ballpark entirely.

You stare up at him, desperation in every crease and curve of your face, pleading with him. Too far gone to care, you beg him.

"I'll, um," he rasps out, throat dry, "I'll pull out."

You make some sort of noise that sounds like a vague affirmation, tugging him closer hastily. Poor, pretty girl. His chest aches at the sight of you, needy, looking to him to fix it.

"I'll fix it," he finds himself muttering, lining himself up with your entrance. You've similarly taken to murmuring under your breath, hands carding through his hair, devotion in your every touch.

"Need you so bad, please, please, baby."

The slick that smears against his head, the soft warmth of you, nearly makes his eyes roll back into his head. A drawn out whimper spills from your lips at the press of his hips, the first inches of him pushing into your tight heat.

You sink into the mattress as he notches himself further inside, mouth opening. You paint an obscene picture, your lips bitten raw, naked chest arched. He lowers his head to mouth at your nipples, teeth teasing at the sensitive points. You're warm, so warm beneath him – around him.

He's given only a moment to breathe before you push your hips up, impatient. Fucking yourself against him, your fingers dig into the muscle of his back for leverage, tucking him close enough to you that he brushes against your neck and tastes the salt on your skin.

Jason sets a harried pace, bucking forward against you. You begin to cry out again, every resounding slap of his skin against yours drawing out a moan that curls tight around him and presses down on his stomach. You exchange panted breaths between open mouthed kisses, tongues and teeth clashing messily, muffled pleas that beg for more, more, more.

Filthy, debauched, it doesn't take very long for you to approach your peak. Jason, lost in the wetness of your cunt, feels his own building and knows this is a dangerous game he's playing, toeing the line of recklessness.

"Close," he pants, feeling the tell-tale fluttering of you around him, your orgasm imminent. If he can just hold out until he's gotten you there –

Your legs wrap around him, hold so tight he's not able to do much more than rock against you in desperate, quick rolls of his hips.

"Inside," you warble. Your hands come to cradle his head, coaxing him down to kiss you, licking up into his mouth sweetly, teeth catching on his bottom lip. "Mmh, please, baby? Please? I – Jason – want it so bad, need you inside."

"Oh fuck," he gasps, voice hitching, breath stuttering. His face creases, overcome, and you grin, dazed, drunken, pulling him into another sloppy kiss. What's he to do?

You scream into his mouth at the same time that Jason comes. His vision whitens at the sensation of your pulsing heat, the unforgiving tightening that demands his orgasm. His fingers dig into the soft flesh at your hips, burying himself to the hilt and surrendering to your claim.

Warm and wet around him, the evidence of his debauchery coats the inside of your thighs and clings to the base of him. He's light-headed, a little winded, and it takes him a moment to gather his sensibilities. When he looks down, he finds you a boneless puddle beneath him, eyelids fluttering tiredly.

He should pull out. He knows he ought to – but he's broken so many rules, what's another? Jason gathers you in his arms and rolls over gently, tucking you against his chest, a hand skimming up and down the length of your spine comfortingly.

"Fuck," he whispers out into the air, and you murmur atop him. He glances down, meeting your bleary eyes. "Y'just had to go and get caught in that crossfire, huh?"

"N'my fault," you grumble, pressing your face back into his chest.

"Gonna give me a heart attack," he grumbles, dropping a kiss to your crown. Then, with a look over at the bedside table, he jostles you a bit. "Hey. Don't fall asleep. We still have to get you the antidote."

"Wake me when 's ready," is your answer, tone somehow managing a prissiness unexpected of someone who'd just been fucked to within an inch of their life, and he drops his head back into the pillows, incredulous.

This girl would be the death of him.

At the sound of the door, he lifts his eyes, azure pinning you in place. They crease around the corners, immeasurably fond. A rosy mouth parts to form the shape of your name, curling into a sweet smile.

Lovesick and caught in his thrall, you totter forward. The aches of the day wash away under his stare, tender feet closing the distance until you're sitting by his feet. Beautiful boy, sunlit and warm, he gazes down at you through lowered lids.

"Hi," you whisper, wary of shattering the delicate film that encloses around the both of you, the world cut off beyond this spot.

"Hi, sweetheart. Good day?"

It's difficult to concentrate. The shirt he's wearing distracts you, simple black cotton that stretches over a broad chest, the gentle scent of laundry detergent still clinging to it. His thighs remain spread on the couch, grey sweats that offer little coverage of his softened length, the shadow of it against his thigh making you squirm.

"You look really good," you blurt out, after a moment and he huffs out a laugh through his nose, pretty eyes shining down at you over the top of his book.

"It's one of those days, hm?" he muses teasingly but doesn't offer much beyond that, returning to the pages in front of him. You make a noise in your throat, pushing yourself upwards, hands on his knees until you're leaned over the book to command his attention.

"Do something about it, then," you implore, trying to keep yourself steady, demanding. It's difficult when a shiver rolls down your spine at the brush of his nose against yours. You're putty in his hands and when he grins, teeth flashing, you know he knows it, too.

"You can't wait for me to finish this chapter?" he asks. "C'mon, be good for me, just wait a bit, baby."

"I want you now." You pout at him, pushing forward to press your lips against the corner of his mouth, ghosting a kiss over his jaw. Desire pools between your legs, warm, dizzying. You squeeze your thighs together in an effort to relieve your ache but it's not nearly enough.

A weight rests against the back of your neck, his hand warm against your skin.

"So needy," he laughs, lightly. His breath skitters over your cheek and you can smell mint on it. "I'll make a deal with you."

You hum, eyes closing to press a kiss to his cheek. I'm listening. He lets out another huff, then and you feel him echo your movement, lips pressing against your jaw gently.

"I'll make you cum, but only after I've finished this chapter. You'll keep me warm until then. That sound alright? I'll take care of you, but only if you're good for me."

You open your eyes, blinking at Jason. He waits for an answer, a placid expression on his face.

"Hm?"

"Okay," you murmur, pushing yourself up. He grins, leaning forward to capture your mouth in his.

You don't bother taking your clothes off, only kicking the pants you'd worn off before climbing astride him. Jason pushes himself further into the couch, adjusting to tug the waistband of his sweats down. Both hands still occupied, book in one, the other against your back, he nods to you in silent instruction.

With a grin, you take him into your hand. He's half hard, the head of him flushed and bright, a bead of pre-cum smearing under your palm as you work him to full mast. With your other hand, you touch yourself, gently working yourself open to prepare for it.

He hisses your name, breath catching when you guide him to your entrance, tugging your underwear to the side. You chance a look up at him, finding him flushed, hues of pink sweeping over his face as he tries to focus on his book. Biting back a grin, you lower yourself around him.

The slight sting isn't unexpected. Your harried preparation hadn't been enough to properly soften you for the thickness of him. But you let out a quiet moan anyway, head emptying at the stretch, the aching fullness of him inside you.

"Be good," Jason whispers in reminder, eyes on the pages. You hum.

The sun is warm against your bare thighs and once he's seated fully, you lean against his chest.

"Missed you, today," you mumble. His hand smooths a path up and down your back, gentle caresses that lull you into stillness.

"Yeah? I missed you too."

It's easier than you thought it would be, to settle into the cradle of his arms quietly. Your need quiets to a low simmer, sitting beneath your skin, second to the contentment of your closeness. He continues to rub your back, squeezing your hip in praise.

The soft breaths he lets out keep you company, the occasional whisper of you're being so good sinking into your skin like a balm after your long day. All the while, he turns the pages.

The minutes pass in a slow crawl, falling one by one like dandelion seeds. The feeling of Jason, thick, and warm, swims in and out of focus, never fully forgotten. You hear his breath catch when you squeeze around him, the fingers at your back pressing into your skin in gentle cautioning. Absentmindedly, the thought that you ought to have put a towel down flits through your mind.

It's an eternity later, that he sets the book aside and turns to you. Blown pupils and ragged breathing belie his composure, hunger etched in the lines of his face, lips parting, wanting.

"Finished?" you breathe out and he tips his head, a hum muffled as he captures your mouth with his. He kisses you deeply, tongue sliding against yours, slow, but you sense an edge to his movements, a barely restrained need thrumming beneath his veins.

"C'mere, baby," he says softly. "Let me take care of you."

Sensitive and keyed up, you inhale sharply when he rolls his hips beneath you. The length of him drags deliciously against all your sensitive, soft spots, drawing forward a stream of moans. Your orgasm creeps up on you with little warning, your softened muscles surrendering easily to the wet strokes of your lover's cock.

He brings his fingers to your clit, roughened hands circling the button with gentle strokes and you tip over the edge, seizing around him. Jason chokes out a breath at the feel of you and you slump forward, shuddering into the soft material of his shirt.

"You okay?" he whispers, a little laugh in his voice.

"I think I just blacked out," you admit, dazed.

"Don't tell me that," he snorts. You press your cheek against his shoulder, winding your arms around his neck. "You're going to give me a complex."

"Deserved." He nips at your cheek at that and you giggle. A kiss is pressed to your shoulder, before he leans back against the couch, the two of you counting your breaths for a moment longer before you shift atop him, squirming.

"Stop that," he warns, eyes closed. "Unless you want to give me another."

At your silence, he opens a tourmaline eye.

You meet him with a hopeful gaze and his expression slackens in surprise, before he shakes his head. A smile curling the corners of his mouth, he bands an arm around you and stands.

"Come on, then. I can't leave my girl wanting."

love a short fic from infinity to infinity!!! easy breezy slightly lovesick fic u r my favourite ever!!! hoping kinktober is treating u freaks (affectionate) well!! this is the second installment of this month's fics and has a shorter gap between the last than the upcoming ones, which will all be released on saturdays!

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

☞ PADDOCK PASS EXTRAS

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

Jason exhales again, muscles tensing and relaxing beside you and you peer around him to find the man has once more pushed himself closer.

The look on your boyfriend's face makes something in your chest burn, the downturned set of his lips, the ever so subtle hunch of his shoulders. The discomfort in his demeanor is palpable to anyone that spares him a glance and it stokes in you an urge to shield him from harm, despite the fact that you know full well how capable he is of fending for himself.

This strange mood of his has persisted for the last few days, Jason wandering between the walls of your place during his down time like a ghost, unmoored, adrift, eyes unfocused and distracted. Your concern, simmering, reaches a boiling point when you see him bring the skin of his lips to his teeth, worrying the skin after another shove.

On any other night, you might have decided to call it a night. You might have tugged Jason to the other end of the bar, or tapped Steph's shoulder to let her know the two of you were going to leave, or flagged down the security guard in the corner, who at present was preoccupied with the college girls trying to hit on him.

Not ever, in your wildest fantasies, would you ever take matters into your own hands.

But the weight of the week rests heavy on your shoulders and the residual anger sits beneath your skin like an itch. The minute infractures pile up – your boss, the shit luck, the cancelled plans, the family feud, neverending. You're fixing for a fight and as you lock eyes with the man making your partner uncomfortable, you realise with tipsy delight: you've found the perfect person to give it to you.

It takes very little after that to hold yourself back from curling around Jason and leaning towards the man with the meanest look you can muster, and even less for him to bite back. The asshole has a short temper, go fucking figure.

One moment Jason is beside you, a barrier between you and the man who, although not as large as your boyfriend, is much larger than you. The next, you've gotten right up in his face and the both of you are screaming yourself hoarse, rearing up like cobras, waiting on the other to strike first.

When he raises his hand, you don't flinch. The alcohol in your system, paltry and watered down as it is, merges with the anger and gives you a buzz. You must look deranged, staring up at a grown man with a smile on your face that goads him – go on, hit me.

Your own hands have begun to tingle, but you won't hit him until he makes the first move. You watch his arm come down in a slow arc, ready to make its impact against your shoulder. It's Jason's face that swims in your mind, that fuels the hit you're gearing up to deliver on him in return. One kindness deserves another in turn, after all. But then –

An arm is binding itself around your waist and you're promptly pulled away from the bar. You squirm in surprise, twisting in the grip of whoever's dragging you outside, only to receive a weary, "Baby, quit fuckin' squirming."

Jason pulls you out into the fall-tinged air, the streets relatively quiet for a Friday night, and parks you against the wall of the establishment.

"Why'd you do that?" you complain, pushing off the wall, as if to march back inside and finish what you'd started, only to be steered back by Jason's hands on your shoulders. "I had him."

He snorts, shaking his head. "What you would've had, sweetheart, is a fuckin' concussion if he swung at you."

You scoff at him, hands coming to rest on your hips. The very notion is offensive – Jason himself had taught you how to throw a right hook. "Not true."

"True." He levels you with a look. "What were you thinking, huh? If you wanted to go home so badly, you could've just told me, instead of trying to get kicked out. You're lucky Steph's in there doing damage control."

"I don't care," you mutter. "He was an asshole. Getting all up in your space."

When you look up, you're pleasantly surprised to find Jason biting back a smile. The realisation that you aren't actually getting scolded for defending your boyfriend brings some cheer back to your night, and you grin up at him.

"This isn't funny," he says.

You nod solemnly, and his lips twitch.

"I mean it, peach," he insists, shaking you a little. You can't help the giggle that slips from your lips and he groans. "Don't fucking laugh. You can't go picking fights with people, baby."

"I think you forgot the end to that sentence," you tell him, holding up a finger and the exasperation on his face is enough to make up for the miserable week you've had. "I was fully prepared to finish it."

The silence that follows tells you you've got him, and he presses his lips together, unimpressed.

"You're trouble, you know that?" he tells you, after a moment and you grin, leaning in.

"Would you have stitched me up after?"

He shakes his head, lifting his hand from your shoulder to wipe it down your face. Your cackle is muffled by his palm.

"I'm not playing nurse for you, stupid," Jason says, but there's a grin on his face now that makes your heart lighten. You're tucked into his side, then, and you have to bite your lip to ground yourself when he says, "C'mon, let's just go home. I miss you."

"Yeah, okay," you murmur. It's only a little while after you've begun your walk home that you tell him, with only the streetlights for company, "I missed you, too."

A soft mouth brushes against your temple in response.

fin.

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.