I wasn't obsessed. And I sure as fuck wasn't as bad as he was.
I forced my expression into something neutral. Unbothered. But my fingers were still too tight around the water bottle, andKiminoticed. Of course the bastard noticed.
“I don't have time for this,” I muttered, brushing past him.
Kimilet out a low laugh, the sound smug and annoyingly entertained. “Right. Whatever you say,Dubois.”
The media penwas the same circus as always—microphones shoved in my face, cameras flashing, reporters firing off questions faster than I could answer them. My temper was on a fraying leash, and I was ready to throw all ten years of PR training away.
“Callum, any thoughts on Aurélie Dubois's performance in FP2?”
“Do you think the rivalry is affecting your focus on the championship?”
“Have you spoken to her since Bahrain?”
That one hit like a direct strike to the ribs. The sharp edge of guilt twisted deep in my chest, but I didn't let it show. I exhaled through my nose, forced my expression neutral, and kept my voice even.
“Aurélie'sdoing an incredible job,” I said, tone measured. “She's adapting quickly and proving she's more than capable of holding her own on this grid.” A beat of silence. Then, “As for Bahrain, what happens in the paddock stays in the paddock.”
The reporters pounced, scribbling furiously, cameras capturing every flicker of emotion I refused to give them. I felt tense and tired. And when I finally made my escape, I could still feel the weight of her name in the air, pressing down on me.
Auréliewas in my head—on and off the track. Had been since the moment she steppedonto this grid.
By the time I reached the Vanguardmotorhome, the exhaustion of the day felt embedded in my skin. The door clicked shut behind me, and the last thread of restraint snapped. I exhaled hard. Dragged both hands through my hair. Pressed my palms against the counter. Head dipped. Eyes shut.
For half a second, I let myself feel it. The frustration. The heat. The fucking ache of it all.
I shoved off the counter, the legs of the nearest chair scraping against the tile as I kicked it out of my path. Collapsing onto the couch, I yanked out my phone like it might offer an escape. Anything to not think about her.
I should've known better than to open Instagram.
Fraboiswas back in full force. Video montages, memes, threads dissecting every flicker of eye contact, every clipped interview answer. We weren't drivers anymore, we were content. I scrolled past a headline calling us the nextSenna-Prost—one of the most famous rivalries in Formula 1 history. Past a post comparing our Bahrain battle to something out of a scripted drama.
A clip labeled"If sexual tension was anF1rivalry"sat dead center on my feed.
I told myself not to click. I clicked anyway.
The video opened with a montage—Auréliein the garage, lip caught between her teeth as she studied telemetry.Aurélie walking the paddock in her perfectly tailored team gear.Auréliestepping out of a hotel in a dress that shouldn't have made my breath catch, but did.
The music swelled as the clip shifted—her slipping out of her car, her body language all fire and precision, hair damp with sweat, golden-green eyes burning. She was fierce. She was focused. She looked like she'd already set the track on fire. And maybe I was the only one who'd noticed.
Jesus.
I locked my phone. Tossed it onto the cushion beside me. Scrubbed a hand down my face. A second passed. Then two. I picked it back up.
Weak. Pathetic. Fucked.
I was still staring at the screen, fighting some war with myself I had no chance of winning, when the notification popped up.
Aurélie
Heard your interview. Don’t think flattery will make me go easy on you. ;)
My pulse jumped, my stomach twisting on instinct. Of course she knew exactly how to push me.
A grin tugged at my mouth. My thumbs hovered over the keyboard, debating some kind of calculated delay—but fuck that. I needed this with her.
Wouldn’t dream of it.
