"At least William's car passed inspection with flying colors," I say, standing and smoothing my black blazer.
The random FIA inspections always set my nerves on edge, but this one had been particularly anxiety-inducing given the heightened scrutiny on our team since we've been consistently scoring points.
"Johnson looked offended they even suggested checking." Blake chuckles. "You know how protective he is of those cars. They're cleaner than most operating rooms."
We exit the meeting room together, stepping into the plush corridor of this hotel. The place reeks of old money and privilege—all marble floors, gilded mirrors, and staff so discreet, they seem to evaporate between sightings. Outside, the Mediterranean sparkles under the setting sun, Monaco's harbor filled with yachts worth more than our entire team budget.
"Strategy meeting went well," Blake comments as we walk. "EJ's getting more confident with the circuit. His practice times were impressive, and his qualifying was strong."
"He'll need it tomorrow. That first corner is going to be chaos."
"Always is." Blake checks his watch. "I'm heading up to meet Silas, Maya and the boys. Felix promised to share some insights from his Monaco podiums that might help EJ."
I nod, grateful for Felix's continued mentorship of our younger driver. "Tell them to not stay up too late. We should all be well-rested for tomorrow."
"Will do." Blake squeezes my shoulder before turning toward the elevators. "And don't stay up analyzing those sector times again. They won't change before morning."
"No promises," I call after him, though we both know I absolutely will be reviewing them one more time.
I continue down the corridor toward my room, legs aching after a day spent standing in the garage, pacing through strategy meetings, and navigating the treacherous politics of the paddock. Monaco always intensifies everything—the stakes, the pressure, the visibility. Every sponsor, celebrity, and influencerwith even a tangential connection to F1 descends on the principality for the weekend.
My key card slides into the door at the end of the hall when a sudden grip on my forearm startles me. Before I can react, I'm pulled sideways through another doorway, the heavy hotel door swinging shut behind me with a soft click.
"Finally..."
William.
He stands before me in the dimly lit entryway of his hotel room, his white T-shirt a stark contrast to his tight black jeans. His face is so open, so vulnerable, it makes my chest ache. He doesn't wait for my response before pulling me into a crushing hug, his arms wrapping around my waist, his face buried in the crook of my neck. His heart hammers against my chest, matching the sudden acceleration of my own.
"God, I missed you," he murmurs against my skin.
I stand frozen for a moment, my body remembering before my brain does, that this—being close to him, touching him, breathing him in—is what I've been craving for weeks. The constant need to maintain distance in public, to limit our interactions to professional contexts, to pretend there isn't an invisible thread constantly pulling us toward each other—it's been exhausting.
My arms move of their own accord, one hand clutching my tablet while the other wraps around his back, his hands shaking. His body is warm and solid against mine, the familiar scent of his skin—mixed with clean soap—filling my lungs. His curls tickle my cheek as he holds me tighter, like he's afraid I might disappear if he loosens his grip.
"William," I whisper, my voice catching on his name.
He pulls back just enough to look at me, his hazel eyes searching mine with an intensity that makes my breath hitch.There's longing there, naked and unfiltered, but also something else—a vulnerability I'm not used to seeing from him.
"I had to see you," he says, his voice low and slightly rough. "Properly. Just us."
He traces my cheekbone, a touch so gentle, it makes me ache. Then he takes my hand, his fingers sliding between mine, and gently pulls me deeper into his room.
The room is dark, the lights off, but I can make out enough to see it's meticulously organized—William's boots lined up near the closet, his backpack hanging on a hook, everything in its place. The curtains are open, letting in the deep-blue glow from the Mediterranean. Monaco at night is all sparkle and shine, but in here, with just the reflected light from the water, everything seems softer, almost underwater. There's something melancholic in the air between us, a weight to this moment that goes beyond just missing each other. Monaco has always been special for us—the place where, last year, everything began to change.
"I miss you—us—so much," William murmurs, nuzzling against my neck. His breath is warm against my skin, his voice vibrating through me like the lowest note on a cello.
I hug him back with one arm, the other still clutching my tablet, which I set down on the nearby table. A long sigh escapes me—part frustration at our impossible situation, part relief at finally being in his arms again. The contradiction of my feelings mirrors everything about us:wrong timing, right person; professional boundaries, personal desire; what we should do versus what we need.
"I miss this," he continues, his words muffled against my shoulder. "Miss being able to touch you. Miss being just us, without the whole world watching." His hands move in slow circles across my back, tracing patterns that feel both comforting and desperate. "Miss you, Violet. Want you. Need you."
He lifts his head from my shoulder, and the stripped down vulnerability in his expression catches my breath. His eyes are liquid in the blue light, searching mine with such open yearning that it causes a knot in my stomach. His usual confidence, the playful cockiness that defines him in the paddock, is nowhere to be seen. This William—raw, exposed, unguarded—is for me alone.
I lean in and press my lips to his, just once, soft and sweet. His curls are soft between my fingers, those perfect, springy locks at the crown of his head that I've been itching to touch for weeks. I tug gently, and he makes a small sound in the back of his throat that's somewhere between a sigh and a moan. I rest my forehead against his, our noses touching, breath mingling in the small space between us.
He smiles softly, the expression crinkling the corners of his eyes in the way that always makes my heart stutter. "I miss you," he whispers again, like a prayer, a confession.
"William..." My voice catches on his name, unable to form the full thought.
