She turns, and the transformation is instant. Her face radiates a glow that seems to push back the lines of the room, her features a softer, more delicate blueprint of Dominic’s. As she moves, the chrome wheels of a wheelchair catch the light. I freeze for a fraction of a second, the sight anchoring me to the floor. It isn't a shock, just a sudden, quiet recalibration.
She reaches for the wheels, her movements practiced and fluid, but she only manages a few inches before Dominic is moving.
He crosses the room in three long strides, closing the distance before she can exert herself. He sinks low in front of her, his large frame folding naturally to meet her level. It’s a jarring shift—the man who carries himself with a sharp, defensive armor around his father is suddenly reachable, his shoulders dropping as he pulls her into a slow, quiet hug.
"You're late," she utters into his hair, her eyes bright with a fierce, protective kind of love. "I was beginning to think the road had swallowed you whole."
"Traffic," he lies easily, pulling back but keeping his hands anchored to the armrests of her chair. He looks up at her with a quick, playful narrow of his eyes. "And maybe I just wanted to see if you’d actually miss me for once."
"In your dreams," she shoots back, tapping his cheek. Her gaze drifts to me, and that bashful tension returns to Dominic.
He stands, his hand finding the back of his neck to scratch at the nape. "Mom, this is Carter. Carter, this is my mom."
"It's so lovely to meet you," I say, my voice feeling thin in the wake of the intimacy I just witnessed.
She doesn't wait for me to come to her. She maneuvers the chair closer, reaching out to take my hand. Her skin is cool, her grip light but intentional, her eyes scanning my face with a sharp, intuitive curiosity.
"So, this is the famous Carter," she says, her smile deepening into something knowing. "He talks about you quite a bit. I was starting to wonder if you were just some figment he’d hallucinated between laps."
I feel a spark race up my neck, and I shoot a sideways look at Dominic. He suddenly becomes very interested in the alignment of the silver spoon next to the saucer on the table.
"The famous Carter?" I manage a small, dry laugh. "I’m sure he’s been complaining more than anything. I’ve been told I’m a bit of a migraine."
"A migraine?" Dominic interjects, his voice regaining its usual dry edge, though his eyes remain soft. "Don't flatter yourself. You're more like a persistent low-grade fever."
His mom lets out a silver bell of a laugh.
"A migraine that he can’t seem to stop mentioning," she muses, her eyes still locked on the way Dominic is standing just a bit closer to me than necessary. "But then, the Valerio men have always had a penchant for things that challenge them. Dominic’s father was the same way."
She says it with a light, conversational shrug.
Dominic’s reaction is instantaneous. The dry, playful look he’d been wearing vanishes, replaced by a stony stillness.
"Alright, that’s enough," he says. The dry humor is gone, replaced by a flat, clinical tone.
He reaches for the handles of her chair to guide her toward the table, but she simply places a hand over his. It’s a quiet, firm brush-off. Dominic’s mouth shifts as he lets go, stepping back to let her help herself.
He pivots to the table and pulls out a chair for me. He doesn't say a word, his movements fluid and mechanical, but he stays standing until I’m seated.
His mother doesn't miss a beat. She ignores the sudden, rigid line of Dominic’s shoulders as if the mention of his father was nothing more than a passing cloud. She leans back, her eyes regaining that bright, observant dancing quality.
"So," she says, adjusting as we settle in. Her eyes are bright, dancing with a warmth that makes the room feel less like a facility and more like a home. "I heard a rumor that you’ve officially joined the team? Bringing some much-needed logic to the garage?"
Joined?I think.Is that what we're calling it?My mind flashes to the way he practically cornered me into the position, a mix of arrogance and desperation.Or was I drafted?
"Something like that," I say, offering a polite smile. "I’m mostly there to make sure the telemetry doesn't lie as much as the drivers do. It’s easier to debug a system than it is to debug whatever is going on in his head.”
His mom lets out a laugh. "A noble pursuit. Dominic was never very good with the finer details of... well, anything that stays still long enough to be analyzed. He prefers the parts of life that move too fast to read." She glances at her son, her expression sharpening with a playful glint. "I imagine he made the recruitment process very difficult to ignore. He can be quite... persuasive when he finds something he wants."
Dominic lets out a quiet snort. The rigidness in his neck hasn't vanished, but the armor is starting to show its seams.
"He has his ways," I concede, catching her eye. "But I think his persuasiveness is just a cover for the fact that he can't actually read a spreadsheet without help."
"Exactly!" she winks at me, leaning in as if we're co-conspirators. "He used to hide his homework under his bed and tell me it was 'a calculated risk.' He’s lucky he’s quick-minded, otherwise, he’d be out of a job."
Dominic’s mouth works for a second, fighting back a reaction, but then a small, involuntary grin cracks his stony expression. He shakes his head, leaning back and finally looking at us both.
"I’m sitting right here," he mutters, though the edge is gone from his voice. He reaches for the water pitcher, his movements fluid again. "And for the record, the machine only does what I tell it to."
