Oh, shit. Yeah, this was a problem.
But… I wanted him to see me like this. Wanted him to know what he couldn't touch… yet.
I pressed send, then let out a nervous squeal at what I'd just done. The can of worms I may have just opened.
I needed air. Needed to get out of this fucking hotel. Needed—fuck, I didn't even know what I needed anymore. I stuffed my phone into my clutch without looking. Refusing to acknowledge the slickness between my legs with every fucking step. Refusing to get myself off. No. Not tonight.
Tonight, I just needed a night out. To dance, to drink, to celebrate, to feel something that wasn't this fucking tension. Grabbing my clutch, I headed out into the Miami night, the smell of the sea hitting me as I stepped into the street.
Because in this moment, anything was possible.
And nothing else mattered except losing myself for a little while.
First thingI saw when I opened Instagram? Us. Again.
Us.Like we were a thing.
Jesus. When would I learn to stop torturing myself? At this point, my socials were basically porn. Specifically, hers. I was beginning to think my algorithm was just fucked, because I used to have way more variety on my feed.
The irony. I was trying to not think about her. Hopefully erase the image of her in that ridiculously tight, strapless pink dress from my mind.
I didn't want to think anymore.
A new compilation had surfaced from our joint media day in Miami, paired with some sultry pop song I couldn't name. Slow-motion clips. Her laughing. Me smiling like an idiot. Us locked in eye contact that now felt like foreplay. And then there was the matter of my hand on her lower back. I hadn't even realized I'd done that.
But now I couldn't unsee it.
And thecomments.Not helping me at all.
@F1Thirsty: The tension here is INSANE. Just datealready.
@RivalryEdits: Fraser couldn’t help himself—his hand went there all on its own.
@GridDrama: “Rivalry” is looking a lot like foreplay, don’t you think?
@GirlsOnTheGrid: They’re both so fucking fine.
@ForTheF1Fans: Raw, next question.
I scrubbeda hand over my face, scrolling through the endless reactions. The fans were eating it up, dissecting practically every fucking breath we took in each other's vicinity. It shouldn't have bothered me—it was all just the noise that came with being inF1—but this time it felt different. This time, it felt personal.
Was it really that obvious? Were they seeing something I wasn't ready to admit?
Hell, we weren't even dating. She could barely stand me half the time.
I set my phone down, but the images of us lingered. Her sharp laugh, her easy confidence, the way she'd looked at me like I was a puzzle she'd already solved. And my hand. The way it had found its place on her back, like it belonged there.
I'd been around her enough now to know she wasn't the kind of person who tolerated anything she didn't want. She would've shoved me off or called me out if it had bothered her. But she didn't even flinch.
The realization settled in my chest like a bad strategy call mid-race—too late to fix and guaranteed to haunt you.Maybe the fans weren't entirely wrong. Maybe there was something between us—something I'd been trying to ignore, to bury beneath the layers of competition and professionalism. Something that had started as a spark and was quickly becoming an inferno.
My phone buzzed with aSnapchatnotification, jolting me from my thoughts.
Aurélie
How does this look for the club?
Before I even opened it, I was fucked, already wound so tight fromthat first picture she’d sent, from the way that dress hugged her curves in all the ways I shouldn’t be thinking about. But then I tapped on the snap, and—nope, I wasn’t recovering.
