"He’s something," I muttered, finally tearing my eyes away to grab the soda gun.
"A craving, though?" Luka shook his head. "I know this is the best spot nearby, but my brother usually lives on green juice and discipline. I didn't think a specialty burger could drag him out here on a weeknight."
I felt a faint jolt climb my neck, but I brushed it off. "Maybe he just wanted to prove he could survive the cholesterol," I said, my voice steadying.
I focused on Luka, trying to anchor myself in his easy energy.
"So," I said, glancing at him like I already knew the answer, "A burger? Or are you feeling 'sensitive' tonight, too?"
Luka grinned, his eyes sparking as he glanced from me to the scowling version of his brother across the room. "You knowwhat? Screw it. I’ll take the special, too." He gave a small nod, like he’d just made an executive decision. "And keep the onions on mine. I can handle a little bite. He can’t.”
I managed a genuine laugh, the tension in my chest loosening just a fraction. "One burger with extra baggage, coming up."
I didn’t have to look to know Dominic was back in his booth. I focused on the glass in my hand, watching it fill like it required my full attention. I didn’t care. That was the point.
But as I reached for the fruit to top Sienna’s glass, the lime felt heavy in my hand.
Chapter twelve
Carter
My dad kisses my temple—the quick, habitual gesture he uses when he’s pretending he isn’t worried. But I can feel the slight tremor in his hand as it lingers at the back of my head. It’s been years since he’s stood on an F1 grid, and even though he’s going back as a coach and not a driver, the wreckage of that day is clearly riding in Marco’s truck with him.
"Don’t forget to lock up," he says, his voice a fraction tighter than usual. "And try to eat something that isn't cereal. Your mother would have had a field day with the optics of you looking malnourished even while the rest of us are in front of the press."
I flinch, the reaction cutting through me before I can bury it. He doesn't bring her up often, but when he does, it’s a reminder of a person who treated my childhood like a photo op for the cameras. She loved the high-stakes attention of racing; the onlything she loved more was being the one the cameras focused on while Dad was in the car.
"I resent that," I say, forcing a lightness to mask the irritation at her name. "Cereal is a sophisticated, multi-textured food group. Besides, there’s no press here to impress."
Marco lets out a low, easy chuckle from the passenger side. He’s figured it out by now—when to push and when to back off. Anyone who stuck around Dominic that long had to. "Don't listen to him, Carter. I’ll make sure he drinks more coffee than nerves once we hit the paddock. We’ll be back after the checkered flag."
"So you and Marco go down early for the setup and data-checks," I say. It’s not a question; I’ve watched this departure dozens of times before. I cross my arms, trying to keep from reaching out to stop them. "Everything going to be ready for scrutineering?"
"Always is," Marco says, throwing a reassuring wink my way. "We’ve got a car to build, and we need to get the garage set up before the circus officially arrives. Your old man is going to be the best-dressed coach on the pit wall."
"And the driver?" I ask, keeping my voice flat. I know the rhythm of race week—the talent doesn't move until the stage is set—but a part of me was hopeful the driveway would already be empty. "Dominic doesn't need to be there for the seat-fits? Or has he already left?"
Dad pauses, his knuckles tight where he grips the door handle. "He’s got mandatory media tomorrow afternoon into the evening. Sponsor appearances and the official press conference. He’ll meet us once most of the work is already done."
I hum, leaning my head back. "Right. Wouldn’t want him doing anything that looks like actual work."
"Carter," Dad warns gently.
"I know," I say, already waving him off, like I didn’t just say what I said. "I’m fine. Go. Do the thing."
He studies me for a heartbeat longer, then steps in, pulling me into a quick, firm hug that lingers just a second too long before he pulls back and shuts the door. "Text me if you need anything."
"I won't," I promise, through the rolled down window.
I watch the truck back out, dust curling up in the driveway like a closing curtain.
I should be heading back towards the pool house to do my homework, but my eyes drift toward the main house.
I haven’t been avoiding Dominic. Not technically. In the weeks since him showing up at SHIFT, I’ve just been… observant. I know he’s outside the pool house and in the pool by 5:00 AM, moving with a mechanical, relentless stroke that looks more like a penance than a workout. By 5:42, he’s back inside for the sauna—exactly thirty minutes of high-heat recovery before he starts his neck-strengthening drills. And sometimes, when the day drags long enough, he circles back—another stretch in the sauna, another set of laps under the dimming light—like he doesn’t know how to stop once he starts.
I only know this because I’ve had to pull several all-nighters for my assignments. The pool house has a direct line of sight to the gym windows, and it’s hard to ignore someone who trains like the world is ending too early in the morning. I tell myself I’ve mapped his habits so I can stay out of his way. That it’s strategy. Proximity management.
It’s not because I’m still thinking about the strange interaction with him from work. I’m definitely not replaying that cryptic "craving" comment on a loop after he ordered his food, trying to decipher if he was actually talking about the burger or if he was just being an arrogant asshole. I’m not thinking about the kiss on campus, either. That was a momentary lapse in judgment—an engine misfire that I’ve already mentally filed undermistakes to never repeat.
