"Then you should probably stop looking at me like that," she retorts, a flush creeping up her neck.
I reach up, fingertips tracing the curve of her cheek. "Like what?"
"Like you're imagining me naked."
"I don't have to imagine." I wink, enjoying the way her flush deepens. "I have an excellent memory."
She swats my arm gently. "You're incorrigible."
"And you love it." I pull her for another kiss, this one less gentle than before. When we break apart, both slightly breathless, the weight of what I need to say presses against my chest. "But we first need to... I have something to tell you."
Her expression shifts, wariness replacing the playful glint in her eyes. "What is it?"
I take a deep breath, steadying myself. "In the tunnel, before the crash... I had a panic attack."
Her brow furrows. "With the car stalled? Anyone would panic in that situation."
"No, this was different." I look past her, focusing on the wall behind her head. Easier than seeing her reaction. "I've had them before. Started after a nasty accident in F4. A friend of mine stalled on track. I didn't see him until it was too late."
The words hang between us, heavy with implication. Violet's hand tightens around mine, but she doesn't speak.
"I didn’t see the yellow flags and hit him at full speed." My voice sounds distant, detached, like it belongs to someone else. "He died on impact. I walked away with a broken collarbone and… this." I tap my temple. "The panic attacks, the flashbacks. PTSD, my therapist calls it."
"You have a therapist?" Violet asks quietly.
I nod. "Since the accident. Seven years now. It helps. Most of the time, I can manage it. But in the tunnel, trapped in the car, knowing someone was going to hit me..." I swallow hard."Everything came rushing back. I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. All I could see was my friend’s car, broken around him. And I had sealed his fate."
Violet shifts closer, her free hand coming to rest on my chest, right over my heart. "You were terrified."
"Beyond terrified. I was certain I was going to die there. Just like him." I force myself to meet her eyes. "The nightmares started again last week. I keep seeing the crash, but sometimes, it's not me in the car—it's you. I can't get to you in time. I can't save you."
Her expression softens with understanding. "Is that why you've been asking me to stay within sight?"
I nod, embarrassed by my neediness, but too honest to deny it. "And those underground concerts I go to, like the one late last year—"
"Where you came back looking like a raccoon?" A small smile plays at her lips, taking the sting out of the words.
I feign offense, furrowing my brow. "My eyeliner was artistic, thank you very much."
Her smile widens. "That was not eyeliner, but it was adorable."
"I was going for intimidating, but I'll take adorable from you." I capture her hand, bringing it to my lips. "Those concerts, the one we went to during our road trip last year... They help. Being in a crowd, surrounded by noise, by life... It's a way to confront my fear of the unknown. To be in a place that's both liberating and claustrophobic at the same time. To ground myself.”
"Music therapy," she says thoughtfully. "I've read about it."
"It quiets my brain when I start spiraling. That, and the therapy sessions." I look down at our intertwined fingers. "But in the past year, I've found something else that helps.Someone."
I reach up, tracing the delicate line of her jaw with my fingertips. "You quiet the voices in my head, Violet. You make the tremors stop. I've fallen for you not just because you're anunbelievable woman, but because my body, my soul, recognizes you as safe. As home."
I pull her closer, wrapping my uninjured arm around her waist. "Spending time alone was hurting me. I was hot-blooded, using violence to numb this pain. Since meeting you, things have been different. I still feel the panic coming sometimes, especially after crashes or when I'm worried about a race, but it's... manageable. Bearable."
Violet's eyes shine with unshed tears, but her expression remains composed. Always so composed.
"I don't want you to think this means you have to babysit me," I continue hurriedly. "That's not why I'm telling you this. I don't expect you to fix me or save me or always be around so I don't spiral. I'm far from being okay. Yet I want you to know that my feelings for you—my obsession, my pursuit, my awkward attempts at courtship"—she chuckles softly, and some of the tension eases from my shoulders—"they weren't because my trauma told me to latch onto someone. They're real. I've been genuinely in love with you almost from the start. Your presence quieting the voices in my head is just an unexpected bonus."
She's quiet for a long moment, her fingers absently tracing patterns on my chest. "I didn't know," she finally says.
"Showing weakness in F1 is a good way to get fired." I try for a smile, though it feels strained. "So I hid it. Masked it with the happy-go-lucky golden retriever act. Not that it’s fake, but… You get what I mean."
