#pitstop

The treatment room door had barely clicked shut behind him before you knew this was going to be a problem.

Dick carried himself like he always did after a race weekend — loose, easy, a little too relaxed in a way that was meant to convince everyone around him that nothing hurt, that the strain of the last few days had slid right off him the second he stepped out of the car.

Unfortunately for him, it never fooled you.

“You’re late,” you sighed without looking up from your notes, even though you had been tracking the sound of his footsteps down the corridor long before he reached the door.

“I’m fashionably late,” he corrected, dropping into the chair like he had all the time in the world, like you weren’t already narrowing your eyes at him from across the room.

“This isn’t a social call, Grayson,” you replied flatly, setting the clipboard aside and finally giving him your full attention, your gaze sweeping over him in a way that was clinical on the surface and something else entirely underneath.

He smiled at that, slow and unbothered, like he enjoyed this part, like pushing you was just another kind of sport.

“Coulda fooled me,” he hummed, leaning back slightly, stretching his arms in a way that was just a little too deliberate, just a little too showy, “you always look happy to see me.”

“I look happy when my drivers aren’t hiding injuries from me,” you shot back, already moving toward him, your hands settling on his shoulders before he could dodge out of reach.

“I’m not hiding anything,” he said easily, which was exactly what someone hiding something would say, and the second your fingers pressed into the muscle at the top of his right shoulder, you felt it.

Tight. Guarded. Wrong.

You pressed a little harder.

He didn’t react, and that in itself was suspicious.

“Where does it hurt,” you asked, your tone shifting into something quieter, more focused, as your hands moved methodically, testing, assessing, waiting for the slip.

“It doesn’t,” he answered, far too quickly.

You hummed, unconvinced, your fingers trailing down along his shoulder blade, then back up again, mapping the tension like you’d done a hundred times before.

“Okay,” you said after a moment, voice light in a way that should have warned him, “we can do this the easy way, or I can find it myself.”

He huffed out a quiet laugh, like he thought you were bluffing.

“You’re not gonna-..”

You leaned your weight against his shoulder, not hard, not enough to actually hurt him if he was fine, but just enough pressure to catch him in his lie.

And the reaction was instant.

His breath caught, sharp and involuntary, and his hand shot out to grab your forearm, fingers tightening around you like a reflex he couldn’t stop in time.

You froze for half a second, then slowly looked up at him with narrowed eyes.

He was already trying to recover, his grip loosening slightly, his expression smoothing back into something casual, but it was too late.. and he clearly knew that

You had him right where you wanted him.

“…right,” you drawledslowly, tilting your head as you studied him, your hand still resting exactly where it had been when he flinched, “so you’re this big, burly man who can handle a car at two hundred miles an hour-...”

“It’s not-..” he started, but you talked right over him.

“...but the second I lean on your shoulder,” you continued, your tone sharpening just enough, “you’re grabbing my arm like I fucking shot you.”

“I did not grab you like that,” he protested, which was bold, considering his hand was still loosely wrapped around your wrist.

You raised an eyebrow and he backtracked, his eyes focusing on his lap with a slight huff.

“…okay, maybe a little,” he admitted.

“A little?” you echoed, incredulous, and before he could stop you, you pressed again, right into the same spot.

“Fuck me-! ...okay, yeah, yep.. there it is,” he hissed, his fingers tightening again before he forced himself to let go this time, like he knew he’d already lost the argument.

You straightened slightly, crossing your arms as you looked at him, utterly unimpressed.

“And you were going to tell me it ‘doesn’t hurt,’” you said, making air quotes with your fingers.

“It doesn’t hurt that bad,” he tried, and there was that stubbornness again, the same one that got him into your treatment room in the first place.

You stared at him.

He held your gaze for exactly three seconds before his shoulders dropped a fraction.

“…okay, it hurts,” he amended.

“Thank you,” you said dryly, stepping back in and ignoring the way your pulse had jumped when he grabbed you earlier, focusing instead on the injury you’d just confirmed, your fingers returning to his shoulder with more purpose now.

He watched you this time, quieter, the teasing edge dulled into something softer as your touch shifted from testing to treating, careful and precise in a way that made his jaw unclench despite himself.

“You’re impossible,” you muttered, mostly to yourself, as you worked.

“I’ve been told that,” he replied, but there was no bite to it now, just a faint hint of amusement threading through something more subdued.

“You could’ve made this easier,” you added, your thumb pressing into the muscle again, slower this time, controlled, easing the tension instead of provoking it.

“And miss out on you manhandling me?” he said, a hint of his usual grin creeping back in, even if it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

You snorted softly at that, shaking your head.

“This isn’t manhandling,” you swatted his arm, “this is me fixing the problem you pretended didn’t exist.”

“Semantics,” he murmured, but his voice had softened, the fight bleeding out of him as he let himself sink into the table slightly, trusting you in a way he didn’t with most people.

Your hands slowed, adjusting, working through the tightness with practiced ease, and for a moment the room settled into something quieter, the noise of the paddock outside fading into the background again.

“You always do that,” you murmured after a while, your voice quieter now, more thoughtful.

“Do what.”

“Wait until you can’t hide it anymore,” you replied, your fingers pausing briefly before continuing, “like if you ignore it long enough, it’ll just… go away.”

He didn’t answer right away.

When you glanced up, his gaze was already on you, steady, a little too perceptive for comfort.

“Or,” he said slowly, “I know you’ll find it anyway.”

Something in your chest tightened at that, unexpected and sharp, and you looked away before he could read too much into your expression.

“That’s not a strategy,” you sighed, trying for firmness and landing somewhere softer.

“Works pretty well so far,” he countered quietly with a wink.

You shook your head, but there was no real heat behind it, your focus slipping just enough as your hands continued their work, easing the tension bit by bit under your touch.

“Next time,” you said after a moment, “you tell me before I have to go digging for it.”

He hummed, like he was considering it.

“No promises,” he grinned, his cheeks pressing into dimples.

You pressed into the sore spot again, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind him.

He exhaled sharply.

“…okay, some promises,” he corrected.

That earned him a small smile, despite yourself, and for a moment it felt easy again, familiar in a way that was starting to blur into something more.

“Good,” you said softly, your hands slowing as you finished, lingering for just a second longer than necessary before you forced yourself to pull back.

He didn’t move right away.

Just sat there, watching you, something warm and unreadable settling into his expression.

“Y'now,” he drawled after a beat, voice low, “if this is how you react when I don’t tell you where it hurts…”

You glanced at him, already suspicious.

“…I might start keeping secrets on purpose,” he finished.

You rolled your eyes immediately, but the corner of your mouth betrayed you.

“Don’t push your luck,” you warned.

His grin returned, easy and bright, but there was something steadier underneath it now, something that lingered in the way his gaze held yours for just a second longer than it needed to.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said.

And somehow, you didn’t believe him for a second.

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