Page 3 of Flat Out
“I do. I really, really, do,” I muttered, climbing up beside him. "You're an idiot."
"Certifié," he mumbled, eyes fluttering open. Certifiable. “You’re not leaving?” He sounded like a child afraid to believe in comfort, and I remember how he said his parents fought a lot when he was younger. Caught in the middle and the cause of endless marital issues.
“Not yet.” I glanced around the disaster of his flat—clutter, clutter, clutter—my heart softened just a little more. I had a million things to do, but… this was more important. I would do anything this man needed if it meant calling him mine for the rest of my life.
His hand shifted, slow and deliberate, sliding up my wrist, over the bend of my elbow, curling lightly around my upper arm. Not possessive. Just… craving. And I hated how much I wanted him, even now.
“I’d pull you into bed with me if I could,” he murmured, his thumb stroking small circles against my skin. “You know that, right?”
The ache in his voice shot straight to my clit. Yeah, this path to recovery was going to suck.
“I know,” I whispered.
“Even now, like this—body bruised and broken, my head pounding like a motherfucker, my career in the goddamn weeds—I’m never not reaching for you.”
I swallowed hard, leaned in, pressed my lips just below his ear. “You need to rest."
He turned on his side and rested his hand on my thigh, squeezing gently. "I missed you so fucking much."
Emotions clogged my throat, but I forced a smile. "You know, in French, we say 'tu me manques'. Directly translated to English, it means you are missing from me. And that's true, mon amour. When I'm not with you, it feels like part of me is missing. That's what it felt like when you disappeared."
"I love you." Callum kissed my knee. "I could listen to you talk all day, Aurélie." A pause. Then, quieter, "Please don't stop. I need you."
And yet, I spent my entire trip doubting if my voice even mattered. If my absence had even registered. That was the thing about being strong for too long—it started to feel like silence was safer than asking for anything at all.
"I'm not running anymore, Callum. I'm here. Even if I have to fight through pain, migraines, metal, and every wall you build just to reach you, I'm here."
"You came back for me."
"Always."
I knew this race,knew it in my bones, my blood, my goddamn spirit. In the last four years, I’d lived it a thousand times. I’d recognize it from anywhere
Silverstone Circuit. It was the final lap, the final sector, and everything was on the line. The crowd was a thunderous roar in my ears, vibrating through my chest until it became white noise that pushed me. My pulse synced with the car and my breath locked into rhythm with every shift. The wheel hummed in my hands like an extension of my body, fused by years of instinct and need.
I felt weightless in the cockpit, flying low to the ground with heat bleeding into the soles of my boots. The halo cast a soft blur across my periphery, the sun slicing through it in gold flares. Sweat ran down the back of my neck, down into the collar of my fire suit. I barely noticed, barely even blinked.
Every bump of the curbs and millimeter of tire placement was all muscle memory now.
I hit Copse flat–no lift, just the tires biting. The car twitched under me but held. Next was Maggots. Left-right-left and full speed. Becketts carved after like a blade, all tight, brutal, and beautiful. Then into Chapel I went as if it was second nature. Downforce sucked the car to the asphalt like glue.
“Push, Callum!” Dom barked into my ear. “Two corners! THIS IS IT, SON! Final sector—DON’T FUCKING LIFT!”
I didn’t. I didn’t even breathe. A burst of speed cracked through me like a drug hit. Stowe came at me like a freight train. I braked late into the turn—too late—but I held it. I felt the rear slide just a little, but corrected and nailed it. The tires screamed but clung by some miracle.
We’d taken a huge risk not pitting again, and the tires were costing me speed in each sector, on every turn, chicane and straight.
Next I went down into Vale. It was a quick left, and a quicker right. I clipped the sausage kerb so hard I felt the jolt in my spine. I gritted my teeth but continued to push.
There it was. The final turn, Club corner. The finish line was straight ahead, awaiting not just any victory, but myfirst title.
But I saw her first.
Aurélie.
She was trackside, past the finish line but glowing like a fucking angel. At first, I thought it was just one of the engineers, maybe even her in fire proofs. But the closer I got, the more it unraveled me.
She wasn’t in racing gear, nor a team jacket. Was it a blouse? No, it was a dress. A fuckingwedding dress.
