My father’s name hits me like a physical shove. Using his name so casually, as if they’re co-conspirators in my whereabouts, feels like a sudden, sharp insult.
He has no right to track my exits, and he certainly has no right to use my father as a back-channel to find me.
I spin around, the cloth bunched in my fist. “I was busy, and I don't need you checking in with my father to see where I am. You aren't the center of every decision I make.”
His arms crossed over his chest. He isn't scowling today. Instead, his eyes are bright and his mouth is quirked into a devastating, slow-burn smirk.
He didn’t actually care what my father said. Or maybe he did—maybe he’d actually spent the night looking for me—but it doesn’t matter. He didn't even want an answer; he just wanted to see if the mention of my dad would be enough to make me break my silence.
I feel a flush crawl up my neck—not from embarrassment, but from the realization that I just walked straight into the trap. I fell for the bait like a rookie, and he’s enjoying every second of the catch.
I take a slow, deliberate breath, forcing my fingers to loosen their grip on the cloth. I won't give him the satisfaction of seeing me rattled. I straighten my spine, my shoulders lifting as I find my footing, and I meet his gaze with a level of clinical detachment I don't actually feel.
“What’s the matter?” I ask, my voice dropping into a sharp, quiet edge. “Finally decided to join the team for something? You actually sat through a group meal without looking like you were being held against your will?”
“I decided it was time to be a team player,” he says, his voice shifting an octave as his eyes track the movement of my hands. “You should be happy. Isn't that what you wanted? For me to stop being a disaster?”
“I want you to be professional,” I retort, my voice gaining that sharp, protective edge. “I didn’t realize that required a supervised dinner. Just don’t expect a gold star for doing the bare minimum of your contract.”
Dominic doesn’t flinch. If anything, the smirk deepens, turning into something almost indulgent. He inches closer, taking a single, lazy step into my space.
“Careful, Shortcut,” he murmurs, his voice vibrating with a faux-wounded gravity that makes my skin prickle. “You’ve got a real edge today. It’s almost like you missed me.”
The nickname—and the sheer, staggering arrogance of the suggestion—hits me like a spark to dry fuel.
“I didn't miss you. I enjoyed the silence,” I snap, but even as the words leave my mouth, I see the light flare in his eyes. I fell for it again. I gave him the reaction he was fishing for.
I huff a breath, dropping the cloth onto the rack. It feels childish—this petty back-and-forth, the sniping, the forced wit. After the way the world seemed to tilt on its axis yesterday in the dark, this feels almost ridiculous. But as I look at him, I realize that’s exactly why we’re doing it. Snapping at each other is safe. It has boundaries. It’s a return to the version of us that doesn't involve heavy confessions or hollowed eyes.
I decide to lean into it further. “You don’t actually care that I’m mad, do you? You’re just bored. You’d rather have me biting your head off than ignoring you, because at least then I’m looking at you.”
The smirk falters for a fraction of a second—a glitch in his programming. For a heartbeat, the cocky facade thins, and I see a flicker of the man from yesterday: the one who was drowningin the rain, the one who had actually spent his night scouring a room for someone who wasn't there. He was worried. He was hurt. And he’s using this team player act to bury it.
“Is that what you think?” he asks, his voice losing the playfulness, turning into something low and unreadable.
“I think you’re a professional at redirection,” I say, shifting my hip. I’m doing it too—using my sarcasm to keep him at arm's length. “What’s next? Are you going to tell me you actually enjoyed the company? Or that you’ve suddenly developed a passion for mid-tier catering?”
A sharp, cheerful whistle echoes through the bay.
“Whatever the argument is, I’m on Carter’s side,” Luka announces, strolling into the space with two steaming paper cups. He doesn't even look at Dominic, who immediately stiffens, his entire posture locking back into that practiced aloofness.
Luka stops next to me and wordlessly hands me one of the coffees. The heat of the cup seeps into my palms, grounding me.
“Morning, Hayes,” Luka says, giving me a wink that’s a little too bright for this early. “Don’t let the talent ruin your caffeine buzz.”
The tension doesn't vanish—it just goes underground, humming beneath the floor of the room like a live wire waiting for the next storm. I take a sip of the coffee, keeping my eyes on the black liquid, and refusing to acknowledge why Dominic is currently leveling a small sneer on the back of Luka’s head.
“Of course you are,” Dominic says, his voice like the scrape of a tire against a concrete wall. It’s a dry sound that carries absolutely no warmth.
The mechanic from earlier, jogs back, holding a pack of visor tear-offs. “Got ‘em. Sorry, Dom, the lockers were a mess.”
He starts to move toward his helmet, but Dominic reaches out and intercepts him, his movements stiff. “I’ve got it. Go checkthe tire pressures on the rear left. I saw a fluctuation on the monitor.”
“You sure?” the mechanic asks, hesitant. “I can just—”
“I said I’ve got it,” Dominic snaps. The finality in his voice is a shutter slamming shut. The mechanic nods quickly and disappears into the bustle of the back-line.
I watch as he tries to hook the device tether to the side of his helmet. His fingers fumble, the casing clicking aimlessly against the metal. It’s a simple action, something he’s done thousands of times, but today his hand is locking up. I can see the frustrated tremor in his wrist —the fallout he keeps pretending he can still outrun.
