#kleed

There's moonlight coming through the window, falling across the foot of the bed, barely graces the edge of the sheets. Everything else is ashy and dim.

They lie on their backs. Close enough that Christian is aware of Scott’s warmth without touching it. Close enough that it feels deliberate.

Only one room they said. Only one bed.

It was this or sleeping in the car. So here they were.

He shifts slightly. He can hear Scott’s breath change pitch for a moment.

“Do you see yourself as world champion?” His voice feels dampened by how small the room is, how crowded of stuff it is.

Scott doesn’t answer right away. His chest rises and falls slowly, controlled.

He stares at the ceiling like it might say something useful.

“If you don’t see yourself as champion,” he says finally, voice low, as if someone could hear him through the walls, “why be in Formula One at all?”

Christian turns his head.

“I’m not an interviewer.”

Scott exhales through his nose. Then he turns too, just enough. His face is half lit now, eyes steady, unblinking.

“That’s not a PR response.”

The silence that follows is heavier than the question. It presses between them. Into the mattres. Into Christian’s ribs.

Christian considers lying. He’s very good at it, not the flashy kind, just the quiet omission. The kind that lets everyone assume what they want.

Instead, he says, “I see myself finishing races.”

Scott’s mouth twitches. Not a smile.

“That wasn’t the question.”

“No,” Christian agrees. “It wasn’t.”

They hold each other’s gaze. There’s something charged between them. Something too thick to breathe through properly

Scott rolls onto his side, arm right under his head, closer now. Too close to pretend neutrality.

“You ever think,” he says, softer, “that maybe wanting it too much is the problem?”