It's been two weeks since i left the hospital. Two weeks of bed rest.
Two weeks of feeling useless.
Of lying there, staring at the ceiling, wondering what Lorenzo really was to me.
What we were.
Not lovers.
Not friends.
Just something in between.
Something messy.
Something physical.
Something i couldn't name without choking on the silence that always came after.
I tried to be okay.
I really did.
I threw it across the bed more than once.
Now, I'm cleared to train again.
The bruises have faded, and the stitches on my shoulder were taken out three days ago.
I still feel the ghost of pain when i move too fast, but i don't care.
I need this.
I need to be back behind the wheel, where the world quiets down and the engine's roar drowns everything out.
Scrolling online this morning, I saw a new post from Grand Circuit. There's a race scheduled next month.
I want in.
I need in.
I didn't hesitate.
I grabbed my keys, slipped into my fire suit—black and white with crimson accents—and drove to the track.
I didn't even bother calling Lorenzo.
He'd find out i'm back soon enough.
I thought i was ready.
I thought wrong.
The moment i stepped onto the pit lane, the heat of the sun hugging my skin, the smell of gas and asphalt and engine oil hitting my senses like a high, I saw him.
Lorenzo.
Standing there like he hadn't wrecked me just a week ago.
He looked... different.
Not really.
Just lighter.
Like something had unhooked from his shoulders.
His usual all-black gear, the way he stood with his arms crossed, sunglasses perched on his nose—but he was laughing.
Laughing.
With her.
Was it... Jazz? Jade? Jasmine?
I know i've seen her before.
We've eaten at the same mess hall once.
She sat across from me during the first week.
She was friendly.
Pretty. Brown eyes. Long legs. Sharp jaw.
I don't know who the fuck she is, but i hate her right now.
She touched his arm.
He let her.
He smiled again. A real one, not the twitch he gives me.
I felt it then.
That thing i've been refusing to name.
Jealousy? Maybe.
Hurt? Definitely.
Which is stupid.
So, so stupid.
Because what were we?
Fuck buddies?
FUBU?
I swallowed the bitterness crawling up my throat.
No, I'm not going to do this.
Not here.
Not where i have to prove i'm back.
I didn't come here to feel.
I came to drive.
I walked past them like i didn't see a damn thing.
Like i hadn't memorized the way his hand looked when it was gripping my hip.
Like i didn't remember how he tasted.
How he breathed my name only when he was inside me, never before, never after.
I didn't say hi.
He didn't either.
Cold.
Fine.
Two can play that game.
He didn't approach me until i was halfway through warming up in the garage, checking tire pressures and gear systems.
"I thought you were off training for another week," he said from behind me, voice even, eyes hidden behind his shades.
I didn't turn around.
"I heal fast," I replied, keeping my tone flat. "Didn't think i needed your permission."
There was a pause.
A familiar silence.
Heavy, like the air between us always was.
"She's new?" I added without thinking, nodding toward Jazz-or-Jade, who was now fiddling with her helmet a few meters away.
Lorenzo didn't flinch. "Trainee. For the circuit academy."
"Cute," I said, turning finally to meet his gaze. "You two seem close."
"She's fast. That's what matters."
I nodded. "Right. Speed over everything."
"Isn't that why you're here?" he shot back.
I gave him a smile, sharp as broken glass. "Exactly."
He stared at me.
I stared back.
And then, without another word, he turned and walked away.
Typical.
So i grabbed my helmet and got into the car.
The engine roared to life beneath me, and for the first time in weeks, I felt like i could breathe.
He didn't ignore me during drills.
But he didn't hover either.
Just barked commands like always.
Gave no praise, no feedback beyond the technical.
"You're cutting corners too sharp. Your arm's still weak, don't overcorrect."
"Yes, sir," I said sarcastically.
"Lose the attitude, Miss Gutierrez. You came to train. Train."
He walked off again.
And i hated how much i missed his voice the second it was gone.
I did lap after lap, pushing harder, faster, until my knuckles were white and sweat ran down my spine.
I was exhausted.
My body still ached from recovery, but i couldn't stop.
Not when i could still see her laughing.
Not when i could feel his absence beside me, like a ghost.
Not when i wanted to hurt more than i already did.
By the time practice was over, the sun was starting to dip.
Most of the trainees were leaving.
So was she.
She waved at him before walking to her car.
I stayed near the water station, pretending to check my phone.
My chest felt tight.
"Hey."
His voice again.
I didn't look up. "What now?"
"Your stats," he said, holding out the clipboard. "You shaved off 0.8 seconds by your last lap."
I took the paper, not his hand. "Congrats to me."
He didn't say anything.
"You don't have to hover, Lorenzo," I added, eyes still on the data. "I'm not your girlfriend. I'm not even your problem."
He exhaled.
A slow breath. "You're not a problem."
That made me look up.
"But i'm not anything else either, right?" I said, quietly. "That's what you're trying to say?"
He didn't answer.
His silence was enough.
I nodded slowly. "Got it."
I turned to walk away, but his hand caught my wrist.
Not hard.
Not soft.
Just enough.
"Don't do that," he said.
"Do what?" I snapped.
"Make this harder than it already is."
I laughed bitterly. "Hard? You think this is hard for you?"
He looked at me, finally really looked at me.
And then he did something stupid.
He kissed me.
Right there behind the garage wall.
Rough. Hungry.
Not sweet. Just... desperate.
I kissed him back like i was drowning.
I didn't want it.
I needed it.
He pressed me against the wall, his hands on my hips, mouth crashing into mine like he had no self-control.
Like he hated how much he wanted me.
Like i hated how much i still wanted him.
And when it ended, we were both breathing hard.
He rested his forehead against mine.
"This doesn't mean anything," I whispered.
"I know," he said.
And just like that, he left again.
-
That night, I stared at my ceiling, bones aching, lips swollen.
It didn't mean anything.
But why did it feel like it was killing me?
I turned over and screamed into my pillow.
Fuck Lorenzo.
Fuck his cold eyes.
Fuck his stupid, perfect mouth.
Fuck this mess we've become.
-
The next morning, I arrived at the track earlier than usual.
I needed the silence before anyone else came.
And of course, Lorenzo was already there.
This time, he didn't say hi.
He just handed me my stats, nodded once, and walked away.
I didn't stop him.
I didn't run after him.
This was what we were.
And maybe this was all we'd ever be.