chapter 7 Aug 7, 2025 Thirty minutes into Charles's super urgent, absolutely critical team meeting, and I realize I've been played. We're discussing dinner reservations. Fucking dinner reservations. Like whether we hit up Nando's or some bougie gastropub is going to impact our championship standings. "Media wants the usual Thursday appearances," Parker drones on, and I'm mentally calculating how many ways I could murder Charles with a tire pressure gauge. He dragged me away from Elio-sorry, "summoned me for an important meeting"-to sit through this? To watch him pointedly ignore me while discussing which hotel has better wifi? The audacity is astronomical. My hand's still sticky from the melted gelato, the paper cup gone soft and gross. Perfect metaphor for my life right now. Something sweet turned into a mess because I held on too long. The pistachio flavor clings to my fingers like a reminder of what normal human interaction feels like. You know, where someone gives you ice cream without it being a territorial pissing contest. What's Charles's deal, anyway? He doesn't want me, he made that crystal clear with his "we're nothing" manifesto. But God forbid anyone else shows interest. It's like emotional hoarding. Can't use it, won't let anyone else have it, just gonna keep it in storage until it rots. I stand abruptly, chair scraping against linoleum. "Fascinating stuff, but I've got actual work." Nobody stops me. Charles doesn't even look up from his phone, but his jaw ticks. Good. Hope he grinds his teeth into fucking dust. I chuck the soggy cup into the nearest bin with unnecessary force, trying to mentally compartmentalize my life back into neat boxes. Work: focus on that. Charles: ignore forever. Elio: file under "dangerously tempting." My feelings: bury them so deep archaeologists will need permits to find them. Across the terminal, Elio's laughing with James Davidson, his teammate. They're relaxed, bumping shoulders, sharing what looks like inside jokes. It's the kind of easy camaraderie I've never seen between Charles and Nicholas. Those two interact like corporate robots programmed for minimal emotional output. James says something that makes Elio throw his head back laughing, and I realize what I'm seeing-an actual friendship. Trust. The kind of bond that comes from having each other's backs both on and off track. Meanwhile, Charles treats everyone like potential threats to his emotional fortress. The flight announcement saves me from further analysis. Time to strap myself into a metal death tube and pretend I'm not terrified of flying. I hate everything about planes. The physics make sense on paper, but my body doesn't give a shit about lift coefficients when we're 35,000 feet up. Adison, saint that she is, takes the middle seat without being asked. "Breathe," she murmurs when the engines start. "You design cars that go 200 miles per hour. This is nothing." "Cars stay on the ground," I mutter, white-knuckling the armrest. She takes my hand without fanfare, her grip steady and sure. This is why I love her-no judgment, no questions, just solid presence when I need it. The plane taxis, and I'm practicing my breathing exercises when a shadow falls over us. Charles. Of course. He doesn't stop, doesn't speak, just drops a paper bag and a hard candy on my tray table as he passes to his first class. "Should help," he says flatly, already moving toward the bathroom. I stare at the items like they're explosive devices. The bag's for hyperventilating, he's seen my panic attacks before, usually in the aftermath of our more intense encounters. The candy's for ear pressure. No explanation, no softness, just practical care delivered with the warmth of a medical prescription. And it fucking ruins me. Because this is Charles in a nutshell. He'll notice I'm struggling, provide exactly what I need, then act like it never happened. It's care without commitment, attention without acknowledgment. The worst part? It works. My breathing evens out, the candy helps with the pressure, and I hate him a little more for knowing me so well. "That was… interesting ," Adison observes. "That was nothing." But my voice cracks, betraying me. Britain arrives gray and damp, because even the weather here commits to a mood. We dive into work like it's a life raft, and maybe it is. Data analysis, setup adjustments, simulator runs-the familiar rhythm of race prep that predates all our complications. Charles and I find our groove again, that wordless synchronization we had before feelings fucked everything up. Late nights in the training facility, surrounded by the white noise of treadmills and weights, we work like a real team. He actually listens to my suggestions. I actually compliment his feedback. It's a professional paradise if you ignore the undercurrent of unresolved everything . The night before the British GP weekend, we're the last ones standing. Again. The facility's empty except for us and the ghosts of our bad decisions. The final simulation runs perfectly-every parameter optimized, every variable accounted for. "That's it then," I say, shutting down the monitors. "We're as ready as we'll ever be." Charles nods, gathering his things, but he doesn't leave. Muscle memory kicks in. The way he looks at me when we're alone, the way I unconsciously lean toward him, the gravitational pull of terrible choices. He takes a half-step forward and I don't move back. We're standing close enough that I can see the exhaustion in his eyes, the barely controlled want that mirrors my own. This is the moment where we usually break, where one of us closes the distance and we fall back into our destructive pattern. But then Charles stops. His hands clench at his sides, and he takes a deliberate step back. "Get some rest," he says quietly, voice rough with restraint. "Tomorrow needs to be perfect." He leaves without looking back, and I'm left standing in an empty facility, feeling more alone than I have in months. Because I can handle angry Charles. Possessive Charles makes sense. But this Charles, the one who protects us both from what we want… This one breaks my heart in ways I didn't know were possible. I gather my things slowly, trying to process the ache in my chest. He's right, of course. Tomorrow does need to be perfect. The championship's too close, the stakes too high for personal drama. He's being smart, professional, everything I claimed to want. So why does his distance hurt more than his touch ever did? At least I still have the taste of pistachio on my lips and the memory of a paper bag delivered without words. In the complicated mathematics of my life, maybe that's enough. Spoiler alert: it's not.