"Only when people throw parties like they’re trying to drown out their own thoughts."
Dominic studies me for a long moment. Then he smiles—a slow, dangerous thing that feels like a lie he’s telling himself. He pushes off the wall, stalking toward me with that predatory grace that usually belongs on a track. "You came looking for me."
"I came looking for quiet," I reply, my voice steady even if my pulse is a riot. "You failed spectacularly."
He takes a sip of his beer, eyes never leaving mine as he stops just outside my personal space. "And yet, here you are. In my room."
"Where’s your dad?"
The question tumbles out before I can stop it—a frantic, clumsy diversion because my brain is currently malfunctioning. Being alone in this room with him, looking like everything I’m supposed to avoid, has my pulse doing triple-digits. I needed a bucket of cold water to throw over the tension, and for some reason, I reached for his father.
The reaction is instant. Dominic doesn't just flinch; he recoils internally. A sharp huff of breath—half-laugh, half-snarl—escapes him. "Why?" He steps closer, the space between us shrinking until I can smell the bite of his beer. His voice drops to a whisper. "Am I not good enough?"
The question hangs between us, heavy with weight. It’s the first time I’ve heard a crack in the armor—a tiny, flickering hint of uncertainty that he’s trying to drown in bravado.
"He’s probably out screwing his flavor of the week," he adds, his tone turning humorless.
"Sounds familiar," I snap.
Dominic actually flinches this time. His expression seizes tight enough to look painful. He doesn't look away, but he takes a long, brutal pull of his beer, holding the bottle with a grip that looked one second from shattering it.
"Charming," I mutter, though the victory feels more like a crash. "The whole family, really."
The insult is the catalyst. Dominic sets the beer bottle down on the dresser with a muffledthudand steps into my space before I can even blink. I instinctively retreat, but I only make it two steps before my shoulders hit the wood of the bedroom door.
He doesn’t stop until he’s a breath away. He plants one hand on the door above my head, his arm casually draped but blockingmy only exit. His chest is so close I can feel the warmth rolling off him through my shirt, nearly brushing against mine with every shallow breath I take.
He doesn’t look angry anymore. He looks... searching. His eyes, usually so sharp and predatory, are scanning mine with a rare uncertainty that makes my stomach flip.
"Why the interest in my father?" he asks, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly vibration. "You looking for a comparison? Or just a distraction?"
"Maybe I just prefer the original to the knock-off," I bite back.
It’s a lie, and we both know it. But the sheer audacity of it earns a sudden, unexpected laugh from him. He tilts his chin back, the sound short and sharp, and I find myself tracking the pulse jumping in the corded vein of his neck.
When he tilts his head back down to meet my level, the air between us practically hums.
Everything else—the bass vibrating the floorboards, the assignment waiting in the pool house, the very reason I’d stormed over here in the first place—evaporates. I can’t even remember the sequence of events that led me to this door. The timeline of my life has shrunk down to this exact second, centered entirely on the closeness of his chest and the way the blackout carves his features into something dangerous.
There is a long, heavy pause. My eyes ping-pong back and forth between his, searching the dark depths for a reason to run or a reason to stay. The silence is thick, charged with the kind of static that precedes a lightning strike.
"You don't scare me, Dominic," I murmured, though the words feel less like a fact and more like a dare I’m throwing at my own pulse.
He leans in a fraction closer, until his nose brushes against mine. I can smell the crispness of the beer on his breath. Hisgaze drops to my mouth for a heartbeat before locking back onto my eyes.
"You should reconsider that," he murmurs.
I don't blink. I don't move. I’m rooted to the spot by a gravity I didn't agree to. "I don't take orders."
A slow, dark smirk tugs at one corner of his mouth. "Yeah," he breathes, his thumb tracing a slow, agonizing line along the edge of my jaw, hooking just under my chin to tilt my face further up. "That’s becoming a significant problem."
I swallow hard, the sound loud in the small space between us. I’m desperate for a distraction—anything to stop my brain from cataloging the exact temperature of his hand on my skin.
"You shouldn't be drinking," I murmur, my voice sounding more like a confession than a reprimand. "You’re heading to the track tomorrow. It’s reckless."
Dominic doesn’t break eye contact. He doesn’t even blink. "It’s the only one I’ve had," he says, his voice dropping an octave, becoming something dark and private. He hesitates, his thumb stalling on my chin. "It helps take the edge off."
The way he says it—quiet, almost weary—catches somewhere it shouldn’t. He isn't talking about the party. He’s talking about the season, the car, and the crushing weight of a name he has to carry for another year. For a second, the star driver is gone, and there’s just a person trying to find a way to breathe.
