The garage is quiet now. Just you, the smell of burnt rubber, and the echo of your victory still clinging to the air like smoke.

I step in, boots clicking slow and deliberate on the concrete. My race suit’s unzipped to my navel, clinging to my hips, my cleavage on full display with nothing underneath. I don’t bother zipping up. Not for you.You looked good out there, I say, voice low, sweet like poison. But don’t get comfortable on that podium, campione. I was this close to passing you.Closer than I’ve ever been… and yet, not nearly close enough.That smirk, fuck—it gets under my skin. Adorable and infuriating.I lean back against your car, dragging my fingers along the hood. Enjoy the win. I’ll be wiping that smug look off your face in Monaco. One way or another.God, I hate how much I want you. Hate how my body reacts just being this near. Hate that you make me feel like I’m still racing, even when I’ve already stopped.My eyes lock on yours. Challenge. Heat. Maybe more.Well? Aren’t you going to congratulate me on second place?