Wyatt finished his workout, showered in the gym's pristine locker room, and dressed in travel clothes—dark joggers, a soft gray hoodie. His hair was still damp when he walked through the lobby, duffle bag slung over one shoulder.
The team assistant nodded at him near the entrance.
Wyatt pushed through the glass doors into morning light that made him squint. The black SUV idled at the curb, exhaust rising in thin wisps. He walked toward it, each step measured, and a thought needled its way in unbidden: Don't be in there. Please.
The assistant opened the rear door.
Wyatt leaned forward to look inside.
Julien sat in the far seat, tablet propped against his thigh, eyes fixed on the screen. He wore a navy tracksuit, collar zipped halfway. His hair looked freshly combed, still slightly wet at the edges.
"Morning," Wyatt said, sliding in.
"Morning." Julien didn't lift his head. His thumb scrolled across the tablet, steady and deliberate.
Wyatt settled into his seat and pulled the door shut. The assistant climbed into the front. The car rolled forward, smooth and quiet.
Wyatt glanced sideways. Julien's profile—straight nose, the faint shadow under his eyes that suggested he hadn't slept well. His lips pressed together, not quite tight but close. The tablet reflected pale light across his face.
Wyatt pulled out his phone, then his own tablet, and slid in his earbuds. Opened a document. Stared at words that didn't register. His eyes drifted right again, just for a second. Julien turned a page on the screen, his expression blank, unreadable.
Total asshole.
Wyatt forced his attention back to the tablet. Lap times. Data. Tire degradation charts. He read the same paragraph three times without absorbing a single word.
The car hummed along the highway. No one spoke.
---
The jet waited on the tarmac, stairs already lowered. Julien unbuckled his seatbelt the moment the car stopped, slung his bag over his shoulder, and stepped out. He walked toward the plane with even, unhurried strides and climbed the steps.
Wyatt followed a few paces behind, greeting the logistics coordinator near the base of the stairs. "Hey, Carlos."
"Good morning." Carlos smiled, clipboard tucked under one arm. "Quick turnaround today."
"Yeah." Wyatt climbed the stairs, the metal steps vibrating faintly under his weight.
Inside, the cabin smelled like leather and coffee. Engineers and strategists had already claimed their seats—laptops open, voices low as they discussed telemetry. Julien moved past them all, headed straight for the back row, and dropped into the window seat. His body angled toward the glass, arm resting along the edge, staring out at nothing.
Wyatt paused near the galley. Marco waved him over to the middle section. "Sit with us. We're going through corner entry data."
"Sure." Wyatt sat, accepted the coffee someone handed him, and listened as Marco explained downforce adjustments. He nodded in the right places, asked a question about brake balance, but his mind kept drifting.
He shifted slightly in his seat. From this angle, he could just make out the back of Julien's head—dark hair, the curve of his neck above the tracksuit collar, the way he kept completely still except for the occasional slow blink.
Fucking knows what he's doing.
Wyatt looked away, took a sip of coffee that had gone lukewarm. Marco said something about sector two. Wyatt murmured agreement.
The plane taxied. Engines roared. They lifted off.
---
An hour into the flight, Wyatt excused himself to use the restroom. On his way back, he passed Julien's row. Their eyes met for half a second—dark brown, flat, giving nothing away—before Wyatt dropped his gaze and kept walking.
He settled back into his seat and pulled out his tablet again, pretending to read through setup notes. But his thoughts kept circling back—last night, the terrace, Julien's mouth on his. The memory sat hot and unwelcome in his chest.
Alcohol. That's all it was.
He repeated it to himself twice more before glancing toward the back of the plane again.
He glanced toward the back of the plane again, caught himself, and looked away fast.
---
They arrived at the simulation facility just before noon. The building stretched low and modern against gray sky, all glass panels and clean lines. Inside smelled like new carpet and electronics—cooling fans, the hum of servers in distant rooms.
The schedule was posted on the wall near reception: Wyatt first, then Julien.
Wyatt changed into his race suit in the locker room, pulled on gloves, and headed to the sim bay. The rig sat in the center—full cockpit replica, curved screens surrounding it on three sides, the familiar shape of the steering wheel waiting.
Wyatt climbed in. Adjusted the seat. Pulled on his helmet. The screens flickered to life. Silverstone loaded around him in high definition.
"Radio check," came the engineer's voice through the headset.
"Copy," Wyatt said.
"Okay, we're starting with baseline setup. Twenty laps, push when you're ready."
Wyatt rolled his shoulders, gripped the wheel, and launched.
The first few laps felt good—clean entries, smooth exits, the car responding predictably. But by lap twelve, something felt off. The front end washed wide coming into Copse, then again at Maggotts.
He completed the session and pulled into the virtual pit lane. Climbed out, stripped off his helmet and gloves.
The lead engineer, Andreas, stood at the monitor wall, tablet in hand. "Come look at this."
Andreas pointed to the screen. "Front grip's gone in the high-speed sections."
"Yeah, felt it."
"We'll adjust before Julien's session."
Wyatt nodded, collected his gloves from the console, and stepped into the corridor outside the sim bay.
The cool air felt good after the heat of the rig. He leaned against the wall, rolling his neck side to side, eyes closed for a moment.
Footsteps approached. He looked up.
Julien walked past, race suit already zipped, helmet tucked under his arm. His gaze stayed fixed on the door ahead.
Wyatt watched him disappear through the door. His mouth tightened.
Unbelievable.
---
An hour later, Julien emerged carrying his helmet, gloves tucked into his waistband. He approached Andreas at the monitors.
"Front end's unstable," Julien said, voice flat and professional. "Loses grip on turn-in, especially high-speed corners."
Andreas nodded, typing something. "Same issue Wyatt reported. We'll make the adjustment."
"Good." Julien grabbed his water bottle from the counter, took a long drink, then turned and left.
Wyatt stood near the windows with his arms crossed. He watched Julien's reflection in the glass—the way he moved, precise and contained, shoulders square. The door closed behind him with a soft click.
"Andreas looked up from his screen. 'You two don't talk much, do you?'
Wyatt pulled his gaze away from the door. 'We save it for emergencies.'
Andreas chuckled. 'Lucky me.'"
---
Fifteen minutes later, Claire appeared in the doorway. "Flight's been moved up. We're leaving in an hour."
Wyatt retrieved his bag from the locker room and headed outside. The team van waited at the curb. He climbed in, claiming a seat near the back.
A few engineers filtered in, chatting about data, someone's phone buzzing repeatedly. Then Julien appeared at the door. He stepped up, scanned the available seats, and his gaze landed on Wyatt for a fraction of a second before moving on.
He chose the seat directly across the aisle.
Wyatt felt the heat of him immediately—body warmth in the confined space, the faint scent of soap and something else, cologne maybe. He pulled out his phone and stared at the screen without seeing anything on it.
The van pulled into traffic. Julien shifted in his seat, adjusting his bag between his feet. Their knees were maybe eight inches apart.
Wyatt glanced over once. Julien was looking out the window, mouth pressed into a line, one hand resting on his thigh. His fingers tapped a slow rhythm—thumb, index, middle, ring, over and over.
Fuck off.
Wyatt fixed his gaze on the window. Held it there.
---
When they arrived at the airfield, the technical crew split off into a separate vehicle. Julien and Wyatt were directed to the same SUV again.
Wyatt climbed in first this time, claiming the far seat. Julien followed, settled into the opposite corner, and pulled out his phone. The driver merged onto the main road.
Silence stretched between them, thick and uncomfortable. Wyatt watched the city blur past—buildings, traffic, pedestrians at crosswalks. His knee bounced once. He stilled it.
He felt Julien's gaze, brief and flickering, like a camera flash in his peripheral vision. When Wyatt turned his head, Julien was already looking at his phone again, thumb scrolling through something.
The car slowed outside Wyatt's building. The driver pulled to the curb.
Wyatt reached for the door handle.
"See you tomorrow," Julien said. Quiet. Matter-of-fact.
Wyatt froze, fingers wrapped around the handle. He turned his head, met Julien's eyes. Julien's expression hadn't changed—neutral, controlled, giving nothing away except maybe a faint tightness around his mouth.
"Yeah," Wyatt said after a beat. "See you."
He stepped out, shouldered his bag, and walked toward the entrance without looking back. The car pulled away behind him.
---
Inside his apartment, Wyatt dropped his duffle on the kitchen counter and stood there, hands braced against the granite. His reflection stared back from the darkened window—tired eyes, his teeth ground together, shoulders still tense.
He exhaled slowly and moved to the couch, sinking into the cushions. Closed his eyes.
Immediately, the terrace came back. Julien's face in the lighter's glow—hollowed cheeks, that flash of fear in his eyes when he'd pulled away. The wet sound of their lips separating. The way Julien had turned and walked away like Wyatt had done something unforgivable.
Except Julien had been the one to lean in. Julien had been the one whose hands had fisted in Wyatt's jacket. Julien had made that sound—raw and desperate and impossible to forget.
Heat crawled up Wyatt's neck. His pulse kicked up a notch.
"Stop it," he muttered to the empty room.
It didn't stop.
He sat there for another minute, feeling the weight of it pressing down—the memory, the wanting, the complete fucking mess of whatever this was.
He stripped off his hoodie and headed for the shower. Cranked the water cold. Stood there until his breathing evened out and the heat in his chest finally dulled.