I woke up to a pounding in my head.
Like a hammer was trying to break out from the inside of my skull, matching the slow thud of my heartbeat.
I could taste the sour remnants of last night's vodka on my tongue, and the weight of regret was already crawling up my chest.
The sheets were twisted around my legs, my body sticky with the remnants of sleep and shame.
And then i turned.
Lorenzo was still there.
Fast asleep.
Lying on top of the blanket, fully clothed, one arm slung over his stomach, the other tucked beneath his head. His brows weren't furrowed like usual.
He looked… young. Softer.
Not like the cold, distant version of him i'd gotten used to.
The morning light was filtering through the sheer curtains, casting shadows over his jawline, the sharp bridge of his nose, the mess of his dark hair.
I stared.
Because i couldn't not.
Even with everything, last night, the stupid alcohol, the stupid confrontation i'd caused—I still couldn't look away.
I felt like someone had slammed me into a mirror and forced me to watch myself unravel.
And i did.
Unravel.
Piece by fucking piece.
It all came flooding back in messy, humiliating detail.
The way i accused him of flirting with that girl—Jazz? Jade? Jasmine? I still didn't know. And maybe it didn't even matter. What mattered was how i'd lost it. The way i let jealousy chew through my pride, how i called her names, how i looked like that girl—the unstable one, the emotional one.
God.
I pressed the heel of my hand into my forehead, wishing i could shove the memories back where they came from.
Pretend they never happened.
I ruined everything.
Again.
"Stop staring at me," came a voice—gravelly and low.
My entire body flinched.
Lorenzo was still lying there, eyes barely open, one eyebrow lifting ever so slightly in that familiar way that always made me feel like i was being studied like a bug under a microscope.
"Sorry," I whispered, eyes darting away instantly.
God, I couldn't even look at him.
I sat up slowly, wincing at the pain in my head.
My vision swam for a second, and i pressed my palm to the mattress to steady myself.
My fingers accidentally brushed against his jacket, which he must've dropped beside me last night when i passed out.
I don't remember him getting into bed.
But he must've stayed.
Well of course, he will stay! This is his hotel, Atasha.
That was the problem with Lorenzo.
He never said anything.
He never showed anything.
He just stayed.
Like a ghost haunting the same goddamn room.
He didn't ask if i was okay.
He didn't ask about the night before.
He didn't offer comfort.
But he also didn't leave.
And that… that was somehow worse.
"Here," he muttered, sitting up and tossing a bottled water toward me. "For your hangover."
Icaught it clumsily.
"Thanks," I murmured, still not looking at him.
He stood up after that.
Started gathering his things—his keys, his phone, the black jacket i loved on him but would never admit out loud.
He moved with a kind of controlled detachment, like everything he did had a timer on it.
Like he wanted to be anywhere but here.
It was unbearable.
"I'm sorry about last night," I said quietly, not even sure if he heard it.
But he paused.
Just for a beat.
Then resumed tying his shoes like nothing happened.
"You always say sorry after making a mess," he replied, not looking up.
This is the first time i ever said sorry???
My fingers curled around the water bottle until the plastic crackled.
I didn't know what i was expecting. Kindness? Understanding? A soft pat on the back and a "It's okay, Atasha, I know you're just scared"?
That's not who Lorenzo was.
He gave no comfort.
Only reality.
Harsh and straight and unfiltered.
"I didn't mean to—"
"I know," he cut in. "But you did."
Silence.
The kind that burns.
The kind that hangs in the air long after someone has left the room.
But he didn't leave.
Not yet.
Instead, he walked over to the table, grabbed the hotel notepad, and scribbled something on it.
I watched the muscles in his back move beneath his shirt as he wrote, steady and quick.
When he turned back, he held it out to me without saying a word.
It was a schedule.
Training hours. Race prep. Diet plan.
He was still my trainer.
Even after everything.
"You're still letting me race?" I asked, voice thin and uncertain.
He looked at me then.
For the first time that morning.
Really looked.
"I don't train quitters," he said. "And i don't train people who run away."
I felt those words sink deep, like a hook dragging through my ribs.
I nodded once, then reached for the sheet.
Our fingers didn't touch.
It still felt like they did.
"I said okay."
He nodded. "Don't be late."
And just like that, he was gone.
No goodbye.
No checking if i needed anything.
Just the soft click of the door locking behind him.
I buried my face into the pillow and screamed.
Not loud.
Just enough to let the ache leak out of me.
How did we get here?
How did we go from stolen kisses behind pit stops, to this, me waking up next to a man who treats me like a stranger?
The truth was… I didn't even know when the lines started to blur.
I couldn't remember the moment i stopped thinking of him as a fuck buddy and started wanting something more.
Maybe it was during those late nights on the track.
Maybe it was the way he used to look at me—like i was more than just another racer.
But now?
Now i was just a girl who drank too much and said too much and cared too much.
-
I finally got up and dragged myself to the shower.
The hot water didn't help.
Neither did the mirror—because all i saw was someone who looked tired of pretending she didn't want more than he could give.
-
By 4 PM, I was back at the Grand Circuit.
Hair tied back.
Gloves on.
Helmet in hand.
Ready to pretend nothing happened.
He was already there.
Of course he was.
Professional. Stoic. Unbothered.
Lorenzo stood by the hood of one of the training cars, clipboard in hand, sunglasses on even though it was already late afternoon.
The golden light hit the edge of his jaw, sharp as ever. He looked... untouchable.
And next to him was Jazz.
Or Jade. Or Jasmine.
Still don't know. Don't care.
She laughed at something he said. Touched his arm again.
And i felt that familiar stab in my chest like someone lit a cigarette on my ribs.
But i kept my face blank.
If he could act like nothing happened, so could i.
He looked up as i approached.
"You're late," he said.
I wasn't.
"It's 4 on the dot."
His jaw twitched, but he didn't argue.
He handed me the keys. "Warm-up laps. Ten minutes."
That was it.
No smile. No small talk. No you okay?
I nodded and climbed into the car, jaw clenched.
As soon as i started the engine, something in me shifted.
I needed to let this go.
Not just him, but the idea of him.
The version of him i made up in my head.
We weren't lovers.
We weren't even friends.
We were just two people fucking between gears and checkered flags.
And i was done pretending it didn't hurt.