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Chapter Text

Spanish Grand Prix Weekend, Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya

The Spanish sun didn’t just hang in the sky—it declared war.

It bore down on the circuit like an accusation, burning the tarmac into something shimmering and unreal. Everything pulsed with heat: the air, the metal, the skin under fireproofs. Even the paddock, usually a controlled storm of movement, buzzed with a slower, heavier rhythm. Heat like that did not allow for subtlety.

And there was nothing subtle about Jamie.

He stood half in shadow at the edge of the Ferrari garage, suit peeled to the waist, fireproof stained dark with sweat across his collarbones. One hand rested on the wall, the other curled into a fist at his hip. His eyes, dark, narrow, and assessing, were fixed across the pit lane.

On him.

Yoru. Red Bull’s smooth-operating phantom. He leaned against the RB20 like he belonged there more than the bolts and the entirety of the circuit did, head tilted slightly down, shades hanging from his fingers, hair sweat-damp but careless. The navy of his suit caught the light like steel; the red trim flashed like danger. He did not say a word. 

Not because he did not want to. 

He just did not need to.

Yoru was not loud. Yoru did not have to be. His car will just do the shouting for him. 

He was precision wrapped in mystery, restraint personified, and Jamie hated him for it.

Or maybe he hated what Yoru did to him. The way he made their blood race before he ever stepped inside the car. The way every race was not just about winning —it was about beating Yoru . Proving he could.

And yet somehow, Yoru always got there first.

Qualifying – 17:38 Local Time

The garage buzzed with heat and tension, the kind that settled low in the gut and refused to be shaken off. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, the mechanical chorus of impact guns and muttered telemetry calls layering over one another in a steady rhythm, like a war drum rolling beneath the surface. The scent of fuel-burned rubber, sweat, and adrenaline coiled thick in the air like incense in a temple of speed.

Jamie moved through it with practised ease—no wasted motion. No chatter. Just focus.

He approached the Ferrari like it was a beast, he could feel the heat radiating off it, rising from the carbon shell in waves. The chassis still trembled faintly, alive with residual energy from its last run. Mechanics stood back now, watching like they, too, understood what this was: not just a final attempt, but a declaration.

The world compressed to the moment Jamie stepped over the sidepod and lowered himself into the cockpit.

Everything slowed.

The moment the seat wrapped around his spine, something shifted. Their pulse sharpened. Chest rising slower now, deeper. Fireproofs tugged tighter at the shoulders. Gloved hands found the wheel like it was muscle memory, not motion. Jamie clipped in with practised precision, one strap at a time. Each click echoed louder in their head than it had any right to.

The cockpit was not just snug. It was intimate . A second skin. A steel sarcophagus with a heartbeat, with his heartbeat.

Sabine’s voice crackled in through the comms. Cool. Crisp. 

“Final run. Track’s hot. You’re good for air.”

Jamie did not respond verbally. Just a single nod, small, deliberate, but final.

The Ferrari’s engine growled to life as it had missed him. The wheel lit up and displays flickering. The garage door lifted. Outside, sunlight hit the concrete like a hammer, making mirages rise off the surface.

Jamie narrowed his eyes behind the visor.

This was the moment —the quiet tension before velocity. The tightrope stretch of time between ignition and escape. Where breath and calculation became indistinguishable.

The pit light turned green.

Jamie released the clutch, tyres chirping softly as the car lurched forward, and the out-lap began.

And with it, he disappeared into the rhythm he knew best:

Throttle. Brake. Apex. Exit.

The world faded. The voices, the noise, the pressure, the math of championship standings, it all shrank to nothing.

Only the car. Only the circuit. Only this lap.

Through Turn 3, the tyres bit hard. The Ferrari was on rails. Balanced. Angry.

Sector 1, green.

Sector 2, purple.

Jamie’s breath came steadily. Focus locked. He was flying.

Then came Turn 12.

And him.

Yoru, easing off the throttle just enough, just barely , but the intent hung in the air like cordite. He wasn’t blocking. Not exactly.

But he was there. Enough to break concentration. Enough to steal the edge.

Jamie lifted.

Just a flicker. A breath. But his stomach dropped to the ground. 

And it was gone.

He finished the lap. Strong. Still fast.

“P1,” came the call. “Incredible.”

But Jamie knew better. He watched the screen as Yoru launched into his run with untouched tyres and wide-open space.

1:11.393.

P1 by 0.041 seconds.

Enough to feel it in the throat. Enough to choke on.

Parc Fermé – 19:07 Local Time

Parc fermé: a sacred place with unholy tension.

Nothing can be touched. Nothing can be altered. The cars are sealed and stripped of secrecy. No changes. No tweaks. No excuses. Only the truth of what you have done and the weight of what you did not.

But it was not just the cars that were sealed here.

Jamie climbed out of the Ferrari, fingers trembling against the halo. Every movement was sharp and restrained. His suit clung in damp places. Helmet off, curls plastered to his forehead, skin flushed from the oven of the cockpit. Sweat ran in slow rivulets behind his ears, down his spine.

His entire body buzzed with leftover electricity.

And across the divide—Yoru.

He stood beside his Red Bull like a shadow caught in golden hour. Hair tousled. Suit peeled to his waist. His chest rose and fell in a slow rhythm, like his heart never raced even at 300 kph.

But Jamie knew.

He was waiting.

So Jamie walked straight into the eye of the fire.

Every step across the concrete felt louder in this silence, boots clicking like punctuation marks between breaths. Parc fermé was still, but charged , a mausoleum of ambition and barely-leashed hunger.

Jamie stopped two paces from him.

Not close enough to touch. But close enough to feel.

“You brake-tested me in 12,” Jamie said, voice like flint against steel.

Yoru did not even blink. “I lifted.”

“You timed it,” Jamie hissed, stepping forward. “You knew I was coming flat.”

His gaze tracked Jamie’s, slowly . Not surprised. Not defensive. Just studying.

“You think I plan things that precisely?” he asked, and his voice was soft. Dangerous.

Jamie’s stare didn’t break. “I know you do.”

Another inch closer. Now the space between them felt like it crackled.

“You always this wound up when you’re second best?” Yoru asked, barely above a murmur.

“You always this smug?”

Yoru’s lips twitched, almost a smile. Almost a threat. “You didn’t lift because of me. You lifted because you thought, for a second, I wouldn’t.”

And there it was.

Truth. Served like a blade.

Jamie’s breath hitched. His hands clenched at his sides.

Yoru leaned in, just slightly, just enough for his breath to stir Jamie’s skin. Just enough for Jamie could see the sweat on his forehead.

Were his eyes electric blue, or was it the reflection from the car?

“I’m not your obstacle,” he whispered. “I’m your pace car.”

Jamie’s jaw tightened, heart thudding hard in his throat. “You’re in my way.”

And Yoru, eyes molten, said:

“Then drive through me.”

The moment stretched.

Nothing touched. Nothing moved.

Like the rules of parc fermé applied to them too, like something between them would break if it changed now. Like the regulations could not contain this heat, but still held them there, frozen in the aftermath.

Then—

A call from an engineer. A camera flash. The sound of another driver stepping out of their car.

And it all cracked.

Jamie turned away first, sharp and sudden, boots loud again.

But Yoru did not move.

He watched him go, quiet and still. 

But Jamie could feel a pair of eyes burning at the back of his head. 

Not triumph.

Not smugness.

Just something unspeakably hungry.

Chapter Text

Spanish Grand Prix Weekend, Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya

The FIA room smelled like old carpet and sweat.

Jamie dropped into the nearest plastic chair, crossing his arms hard across his chest. His body was too hot, his race suit clinging uncomfortably, his skin itching with unshed adrenaline.

Sabine stood behind him, arms folded, eyes burning holes through the back of his head, as usual. Her presence was a silent anchor, her careful watch over him a constant reminder that she would never let him falter, not when the cameras were rolling.

Yoru slid into the seat beside him with that same irritating, infuriating grace, casual like nothing in the world could touch him. He did not even glance at Jamie, did not acknowledge him in the slightest, but Jamie could feel the pull of his proximity all the same. Like gravity, heavy and unyielding.

The head steward’s voice droned, impersonal:

“Lap 62. Incident between Car 9 and Car 15. Dangerous driving under investigation.”

Jamie kept his eyes forward. Kept his breathing slow. His heart was pounding. The words were a blur as they went through the usual procedure, technicalities, lap times, delta gaps. Nothing that would give him any relief from the searing heat under his skin.

He did not look at Yoru.

The footage flickered onto a dusty monitor—Yoru’s Red Bull ahead, Jamie’s Ferrari darting up the inside line, closing too fast, the near-miss caught from every grim angle. Every camera angle seemed to bite harder, and Jamie’s jaw locked until it hurt.

“I lifted. Avoided contact. Breach of racing etiquette from Car 15,” Jamie ground out, the words cold, sharp. His voice stayed flat, even as the heat under his skin begged for a fight.

The steward nodded, jotting notes. All very procedural. All very correct.

Until Yoru shifted beside him. A lazy sprawl of limbs, an elbow brushing Jamie’s arm, casual, deliberate, an unmistakable provocation. Jamie inhaled sharply through his nose, fists tightening where they sat folded across his chest. He did not look at Yoru. He could not.

Sabine leaned down, her voice pitched low enough only Jamie could hear, but still sharp. “Stay calm. You let him get under your skin, you lose.”

Jamie did not answer. Did not move. He did not dare to move. But the tendons in his neck stood out sharply against his skin. Yoru knew exactly what he was doing. That fucking scar at the corner of Yoru’s lip caught the harsh fluorescent lighting, a pale slash against tanned skin, and Jamie hated it. He hated how that scar seemed to pull him closer to things better left buried.

Because no matter how far he pulled away, it was not enough. It still yanked him closer, no brakes, no halo. It was a tether, invisible and unbreakable.

Outside, the sun baked the tarmac white. Inside, Jamie burned.

The questions kept coming. Technicalities. Lap times. Delta gaps.

Jamie answered them all with clipped, mechanical efficiency, the words tasting like dust in his mouth. Every second, Yoru stayed there, too close, too casual, like he was bored by the entire process. Like none of this mattered because he already knew how it would end.

Jamie risked a glance. Yoru’s hand rested carelessly on the table between them, fingers tapping out a slow, infuriating rhythm. The scar at the corner of his lip glinted again, like it had a life of its own.

Jamie dragged his eyes back to the steward, jaw grinding audibly. “…final warning issued to Car 15. No further action.” The words landed with the dull thud of inevitability.

Yoru did not move. Did not smile. Just tilted his head slightly, like he was studying Jamie under a microscope, cataloguing every tiny fracture spider webbing beneath his skin.

Sabine stepped forward, angling her body slightly between them, silent but unmistakable. She was the only one who could keep him from snapping.

Yoru just laughed, quiet and low, turned away first, sauntering down the hall without a backward glance.

Jamie stood there a second longer, heart hammering unevenly against his ribs.

“You need to get out of here,” Sabine muttered. “Now.”

And Jamie did. But something held. Even after he was gone, he could still feel it. Dragging him back toward something he was not ready to name.

The paddock greeted him with the harsh glare of cameras and a hum of impatient voices. The weight of the press swarmed the air, hungry for any hint of weakness. Sabine guided Jamie through the madness, her presence a silent promise of control.

“Smile. Say nothing about the hearing. Walk fast. You’re clean. Act like it.”

Jamie barely nodded. His mouth felt dry, the taste of sweat and old carpet still clinging to the back of his throat. He ducked his head slightly as they broke into the open. The media pen loomed ahead, a gauntlet of microphones and foam-covered recorders waving hungrily in the air.

“Jamie! Jamie! Quick word about the incident with Kiritani?”

“Jamie, do you think he should’ve been penalised more harshly?”

“Is there bad blood between you two?”

He forced a smirk, the kind that might have passed for cocky if anyone looked from the right angle. “Just good, hard racing,” he said, voice steady enough to fool most of them. “That’s what people come here to see, isn’t it?”

Sabine nodded approvingly just behind the cameras. Stay easy. Stay above it.

Jamie did not glance toward the Red Bull side of the paddock. Did not let himself. But he could feel it anyway—the weight of Yoru’s presence like a storm massing on the horizon. Invisible. 

Unavoidable.

The reporters fired more questions, but Jamie’s focus tunnelled. Across the paddock, through the shimmer of heat haze, he caught a flicker of navy blue. Yoru. Laughing at something his teammate said, helmet tucked loose under one arm, sunglasses hiding whatever expression might have given him away.

Even across the distance, Jamie knew. Knew Yoru could still feel the tether stretched tight between them, invisible but unbreakable.

Every instinct screamed to walk away. To pretend none of it mattered. Instead, Jamie stood his ground. Took another question. Smirked again. The words left his mouth easily enough, but underneath, his heart rattled against his ribs like it was trying to escape.

It was not the hearing. 

It was not the cameras.

It was not the heat.

It was the way Yoru hadn’t even looked at him once, stepping out into the paddock. And somehow, that burned worse.

But then, from behind Yoru, Vincent appeared. The manager. The strategist.

Vincent’s eyes scanned the crowd, sharp as ever, cold behind those black sunglasses. The moment his gaze landed on Jamie, it felt like the air around them shifted. It was a silent challenge. A game of wills. Vincent did not even need to speak. He just needed to watch. 

The same way Yoru always did.

Sabine noticed too. The brief tension in her shoulders. The way her steps quickened ever so slightly.

“Don’t let him win,” Sabine murmured. “Not here. Not today.”

Jamie’s eyes flicked back to Yoru, his figure now retreating with Vincent into the garage. The scar at the corner of Yoru’s lip—the one that still haunted him—glinted under the harsh sunlight.

The tether was still there. 

Tight. 

And it was only a matter of time before it snapped back into place.

Like a pressure cooker, the air was thick with the buzz of media and the low hum of engines winding down after the chaos of the race. The cameras were like predators, waiting to capture even the smallest crack in Jamie’s calm, the slightest hint of weakness. But Sabine had him in a vice grip of control, coiling and guiding him through the masses with sharp, practised steps, her eyes scanning every corner for threats.

But even Sabine could not shield him from the low boil inside, from the heat of Yoru’s absence that was somehow more overwhelming than his presence. The quiet hum of the Red Bull garage was like a magnetic pulse, pulling Jamie back toward it. His heart, stubbornly attuned to that pull, raced despite himself. He couldn’t help it. Even now, with the distance between them, he could feel Yoru’s ghost in the air, just as palpable as if the other driver was still sitting next to him, elbow brushing his own.

Vincent’s voice drifted to him, cutting through the frenzy. The older man was walking alongside Yoru, his gaze as calculating as always, never giving anything away. His presence was a wall of ice, the kind that made people fall silent without him even having to speak. His eyes flicked over to Jamie once, just briefly, but in that moment, it was as if Vincent saw right through him. Not that it was anything new.

Sabine’s sharp breath cut through his thoughts. “Stay focused,” she warned, her tone low but firm. “Do not let them dictate this moment.”

Jamie barely nodded, feeling the weight of her words sink into his chest. He was not about to let the media have the satisfaction of catching him slipping, not now. Not after everything that had happened.

But still— Yoru. Even as they moved past the press, Jamie’s eyes slid back toward the Red Bull area. And there he was, standing in the shadows, helmet off, the sun casting dark streaks across his figure. Yoru was leaning against the wall, chatting with his teammate in that languid, effortless way he had. As always, he looked like he belonged. 

Like he was untouchable. His posture screamed it, and the silence around him seemed to carve out an unspoken space where only he existed.

His hand came up to adjust his sunglasses, pushing them slightly up the bridge of his nose, and in the space between one breath and the next, Jamie saw the scar again—the faint but jagged mark that had been the start of everything. He hated it. He hated how it was both a wound and a wall. A barrier between them, one that would not let Jamie forget the way things had fractured. The way he had been the one to pull away, to distance himself, but now it was clear—Yoru did not have to chase. He never did. He just waited.

Sabine was still guiding him through the throng, but Jamie was frozen for a second longer than he should’ve been. Yoru had not looked at him. Not yet . But Jamie knew that when their eyes finally met again, it would not be the same. It never was.

“Are you listening?” Sabine’s voice sliced through the fog in his brain.

He blinked, refocusing on her. “Yeah. Sorry.”

She did not buy it. Her eyes narrowed, sharp and piercing. “ Focus. You’re playing their game right now, not the other way around. Don’t let them see what’s inside.”

Jamie swallowed, forcing his mind back to the present, to the cameras that were now closing in, to the sea of microphones that felt like they were closing in on him.

The questions hit him like a barrage. “Jamie, what’s it like dealing with Yoru after the hearing? Does it affect the dynamic between you two?”

“Do you regret not pushing harder for a harsher penalty?”

“Can you still see him as a competitor, or is there more going on here?”

Jamie forced the same practised grin, one that felt more like a mask than anything real. “It’s racing,” he said, his voice smooth, his posture even more relaxed than he felt. “Things happen. We’re both out there doing our job. That’s all I’m focused on.”

Sabine nodded just behind the cameras, a signal for him to stay steady. But even as the words left his mouth, the knot in his chest tightened. He could feel them all watching. Could feel the weight of every second he stood there, trying to remain untouchable.

But then there was Vincent again. The man was always moving, and now he was making his way toward the Ferrari side, with his cold, impassive gaze, sliding between people as if he were part of the current. People stepped aside for him without even realising it. He was a shadow in plain sight, and Jamie hated how much that shadow could stretch.

He did not want to look back at Yoru. He really didn’t. But the pull was too strong. So, against his better judgment, he glanced.

And there it was—Yoru, looking at him now.

But it was not a glance that Jamie could understand. It was not an expression of hate or challenge. It was nothing. Just a cool, detached acknowledgment, like Jamie did not even exist in the same space. Like he was just another piece of the scenery to be glanced at and then forgotten.

And it scalded him.

For a split second, Jamie was back in that room, the noise of the hearing falling away as Yoru’s presence flooded every inch of his mind. He could hear the rustle of Yoru’s breath, see the slight tension in the way his shoulders squared, the almost imperceptible movement of his lips as he tilted his head, studying Jamie, waiting.

Always waiting.

The silence between them stretched.

Then, without another word, it was Yoru’s turn to tear away, turning to continue his conversation with Vincent. But that one glance, that one moment of cold indifference, lingered in Jamie’s chest, a constant ache.

He felt Sabine shift beside him. Felt the way she reacted to the change in his body language. “It’s not over,” she said softly, like she was trying to pull him out of the pull that had tightened around him. “But it will be. And you’ll keep your head high. He’s not the only one who can play this game.”

But Jamie was not sure. He was not sure if he could play it anymore. Not when the tether between him and Yoru was as real as the air he breathed, and it felt like it was pulling him into a storm he wasn’t sure he was ready to face.

Sabine’s words had always been a shield, but now, they were starting to feel like a cage.

And yet, even as he followed her through the crowd, the weight of everything pressing down on him, Jamie knew he could not escape. Not this time. Not when the past was still clawing at him, not when the scar on Yoru’s lip had already carved its place in his mind.

Jamie had dropped out of the race before it had even begun.

Chapter Text

Spanish Grand Prix Weekend, Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya

The garage buzzed with the usual hum of mechanics, but today, the noise felt like static. Everything seemed to vibrate with an energy Yoru could not quite place. He leaned against his car, helmet in hand, letting the cool metal of the vehicle soothe the fire that still burned in his veins. The race had just ended, but it felt as though the real battle had only just begun.

You had not paid much attention to Jamie before. 

The new guy—quick to challenge, aggressive on track. He was a rookie. A wildcard. No need to waste mental energy on someone who did not have the experience or the composure to stand toe-to-toe with the likes of Amir or Zyanya.

Jamie had been in the background. Fast but reckless. Temporary. 

But he had always been there —on the grid, in the media pen, racing alongside him. But it did not feel like anything. 

At least, that’s what Yoru had thought— before Jamie had begun closing the gap, biting at his heels during every race. Snarkling at his rear wing like a storm that would not pass.

It was only now, after the series of races, after the constant press of Jamie’s car in his rearview mirror, after that fucking look in Jamie’s eyes, that Yoru started to notice him. 

And it pissed him off.

The irony was too bitter. Yoru had ignored him on purpose—had not even bothered to consider him a worthy opponent. So why now, after all this time, did Jamie’s presence burn into his skin like a mark that would not heal?

Yoru could feel it—the unshakable pull every time Jamie’s Ferrari had been so close on track. The way Jamie had been relentless, how he closed the space between them like a wolf, always just behind. Yoru had thought he could outrun it. Thought he could stay focused, keep his mind clear.

But the more Jamie pushed, the more present he became. It was not about racing anymore. It was something else. And Yoru hated it. Hated that it made his heart race a little faster. Hated how his thoughts seemed to drift when Jamie’s name came up.

Beside him, Vincent clicked his tongue under his breath. 

“You’re staring,” he muttered, sharp enough to slice through the haze. “We already pay enough as it is. Do not let him live rent-free in your head.”

Jett let out a snort.

The sound of footsteps broke Yoru from his thoughts. Jamie entered the room, looking effortlessly composed, as though he had not just spent the last hour on track putting every ounce of effort into chasing Yoru’s tail. His hair was damp with sweat, his face a little flushed from the adrenaline, but he wore that same unflappable confidence. He always wore it.

And there was that goddamn friendly smile again to the crowd. It irritated him. 

Yoru swore he was not trying to provoke him. Not directly. But every move Jamie made, every glance, every word he spoke seemed calculated, a part of an ongoing game that lured him deeper. Made him want to push the other driver’s buttons till he snapped. 

He noticed the gold studs in Jamie’s ears first when he approached him after qualifiers—the way they caught the light every time he shifted his head. Simple, understated, but somehow, they made Jamie look more dangerous, more real. Yoru could not tear his eyes away. He had never really looked at Jamie before—not in this way, not this close. Not with this kind of pressure in his chest, the feeling that something was shifting within him, deep under the surface.

Vincent was beside him now, reading the situation in front of him without even needing to glance.

“Someone caught your eye?” He asked, voice low, but there was a trace of something other than thinly veiled teasing in it. Concern, maybe? “You paid no mind to him before, why stir up trouble now?”

Yoru nodded stiffly, trying to calm his mind, shoving his headphones back onto his ears. Desperately hoped that whatever erratic beats play would drown it away. 

But it was useless. Every time he thought about pushing Jamie out of his head, he came back —in his mirrors, in his thoughts, in the way he moved. The way he spoke, the way the gold jewellery would glint under the sun. The way he seemed so effortlessly put together.

Jamie was always there now. 

On track, in interviews, in the quiet moments when Yoru could not escape the pressure of the season by just being the fastest. 

The media pen, after getting grilled by stewards, felt more draining, and Yoru always hated it. The cameras were flashing, the microphones crowded like fishing hooks, the journalists pressing for answers, trying to capture every reaction, every little detail. Yoru tried to stay composed, but his mind kept drifting back to Jamie, to the way his presence filled the space between them. The reporters might’ve been asking questions, but Yoru was not paying attention anymore. 

There had been a time—before this strange, unsettling acknowledgement had taken root—when Yoru would’ve shrugged it off. Would’ve turned his focus back to the championship fight, to clean lap times, to measurable things that mattered. But now, every time Jamie was near, it was like an electric current was running through the air, charging everything with a crackling, dangerous energy that Yoru could not outrun.

He barely registered the reporter’s voice cutting through the noise. “Yoru, can you tell us about your performance today? The near miss with Car 9 looked dangerous.”

For half a second, Yoru’s gaze flickered toward the crowd of microphones, the sea of expectant faces. He opened his mouth, felt the answer form, heavy and mechanical—

Just part of racing.

He hated how it sounded. Hated how fake it felt. Like an excuse. Like he was trying to convince himself as much as anyone else.

Because it had not just been racing.

It had been Jamie.

Jamie’s Ferrari darting up the inside, too close, too reckless, and the flash of his eyes in the mirrors like a goddamn challenge.

The words tasted dry in his mouth. They turned to ash before they could leave.

Instead of answering, Yoru shook his head sharply and stepped away from the microphones.

A low murmur rippled through the crowd—surprise, confusion—but Yoru did not stop.

Did not care.

The heat building under his skin was too much. It clawed at him from the inside, pulling his composure apart seam by seam.

Vincent materialised at his shoulder in an instant, his hand ghosting close to Yoru’s elbow like he was ready to physically haul him back if he had to.

“Yoru,” Vincent said under his breath, tight and warning. “You can’t flake on media duties again.”

Yoru did not even glance at him. His jaw was locked, muscles ticking. His chest felt too tight inside the suit, like he could not get a full breath with all the noise, all the flashing lights, all the goddamn proximity.

“Not now,” he muttered.

Vincent sighed—sharp, frustrated—but did not push it. He knew better.

“Seems like it’s too late,” Jett said brightly, appearing with a water bottle and a shit-eating grin. “Bet Jaime already redecorated the place. Maybe put up some posters.” 

Yoru shot her a look that could’ve frozen an engine mid-race, but it only made Jett laugh harder.

“Have fun sulking as I go and save your reputation.” She called out. 

The media pen fell away behind him.

The questions

The cameras.

The eyes.

Still, none of it quieted the hum inside him, like a very overly-attached cat purring, the way the Ferrari driver’s presence seemed stitched into his bloodstream now.

Jamie was still standing there, further down the paddock, his arms loose at his sides, talking to a Ferrari press officer. There was a lazy kind of sharpness in the way he stood, at ease but ready to strike at a moment’s notice.

The corner of Jamie’s mouth twitched like he knew. Like he could feel it too—the crackle, the inevitability.

Yoru dragged his gaze away before he could make the mistake of getting noticed that he was staring.

Before he could give himself away completely.

Vincent caught up to him with a grim look, pinching his nose bridge. 

“You’re going to get a fine for that,” he said, almost conversational. “Jett being there is not going to help.”

Yoru shrugged, biting back a laugh that had no humour in it.

“Add it to the tab.”

Vincent did not answer, but sighed again like a man aging five years at once. 

But Yoru could feel it—the way his skin still itched, the restless coil of energy tightening low in his gut.

He should’ve been focused. He should’ve been starting on pole again (not that it mattered to him anyway), or replaying telemetry in his head, or planning the next race.

Instead, all he could think about was the glint of the metal in Jamie’s ears when he turned his head.

The reckless flash of him diving up the inside at Turn 12.

The way his voice had sounded, cool and unbothered, when he brushed off the incident with the stewards earlier, like it had all been some casual game.

Yoru clenched his fists, feeling the leather of his gloves bite into his palms.

He had not felt like this before.

Not with Amir’s cold mind games.

Not with Fade’s relentless rivalry.

Not even with Zyanya’s ruthless precision.

Jamie was different.

Jamie was worse.

Because Jamie was not just chasing him down on the track.

He was already under Yoru’s skin, bleeding into the parts Yoru thought were untouchable, walled off from the world to see.

And Yoru don't know if he wanted to run from it—

Or chase it until it consumes them both.

Chapter Text

Spanish Grand Prix, Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya

The final few laps were a blur of heat and speed. Jamie’s grip on the wheel was tight, his knuckles aching as the Ferrari’s engine roared beneath him, the sound almost deafening in his ears. He could feel the rubber against the tarmac, the precise balance of the car as it fought for grip, the bite of the brakes as he pushed them to the limit.

But it was the Red Bull ahead of him, always just ahead, that was driving him insane.

Yoru.

The guy who had barely even acknowledged him at the start of the season. The guy who had once been so untouchable, so secure in his position at the top. The guy who was always ahead. But Jamie was not the same rookie he had been in the first race when he was in Alfa Romeo. He was not just some kid with a quick lap time on the lower formulas anymore. 

He was learning, evolving, pushing.

And today? Today, he was breathing down Yoru’s neck like a shadow that would not let go.

Jamie surged through the final chicane, trying to close the gap. He could see it, the sliver of space between them. Just enough. He had done it before —in simulations, in practices, in the earlier laps of the race. He had pulled off moves that had made even seasoned veterans second-guess their own lines. 

But this? This was different. This was Yoru. And Yoru was not going to give up an inch.

Jamie’s breath was shallow, the sweat dripping down his back, his pulse thudding in his ears. He could feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins, his focus narrowing until it was just him, the car, and the track.

But it was the Red Bull that would not break. The Red Bull that had become his obsession. Yoru was not making mistakes. He was not faltering. He was every bit as fast, every bit as calculated as Jamie had been warned.

And Jamie hated it.

He hated that Yoru was so calm under pressure. Hated how effortlessly the guy made everything look. Every shift, every turn, it was second nature to him. It made Jamie’s heart race a little faster — and not in the way it should.

There was something in the way Yoru’s car moved, in the way his focus remained absolute, that made Jamie feel like he was chasing a ghost. But god, he was so damn close. He could almost feel it. The victory. The moment when he could slide past him, pass him on the straight and finish in the top three.

Focus. 

He had to stay focused. He was so close. But the gap was too tight. The final stretch loomed ahead, and despite every move, every push, Yoru’s car was still ahead. Jamie pushed the pedal harder, weaving through the straights, trying to find a weakness. But Yoru wasn’t giving him anything.

The strategist’s voice had crackled in his earpiece, that flat, clinical order ringing in his ear.

“Jamie, you need to hold pace. Let Amir through.”

The words hit like a punch to the chest. Fourth place. That’s what it would be. Behind Yoru’s Redbull, a McLaren, and his teammate. 

“What?” 

“Let Amir through, hold the line.” 

The hollow weight of it settled in, sinking deeper with every passing second. It was not just the position—it was the sting of being told to step aside, to let Amir pass. The cold calculation of the team’s strategy, the unspoken truth that Amir was their priority.

“Focus,” Sabine’s voice cut through the static, her usual calm replaced by something sharper. “You’re still fighting for points. Don’t lose your cool.”

Lose. Losing . That’s what it felt like. A mess of crushed expectations, the weight of knowing he could have done more, but couldn’t. He tried to push harder, ignoring the sinking feeling clawing at him from inside. But it was futile.

The finish line loomed closer. And Jamie had no choice but to hold the line.

A fraction of a second too late to fight for anything higher. The cheering of the crowd seemed distant, muffled through his helmet. His heart raced, but not with the thrill of victory. It was the exhaustion of something worse—the sting of being just short.

As he coasted into the pits, Sabine was there waiting, her expression unreadable. He unbuckled his harness, and before he could even climb out of the car, she was speaking.

“You held it together,” she said, her voice low but not unkind. “That’s all we could ask for today.”

Jamie did not respond. He did not have the words. He was not sure what there was left to say.

Yoru was already standing by his team, always the furthest away from the loud fanfare of the fans celebrating the nth win of the racing team. He was already discussing telemetry with Vincent, no sign of the smugness from the steward interview yesterday. It was not victory that gleamed in his eyes, but something colder, more calculating. 

He had not even glanced at Jamie.

It was something more vicious than just frustration that rumbled through him. 

Jamie could not even let himself feel the sting of defeat just yet. Not when the battle had felt so damn close. He had not been able to find that one last ounce of power to fight for a podium spot, even after being unfairly ordered to step down, and it burned. 

But the burn was nothing compared to the gnawing feeling in his chest — the knowledge that he had come so close, but it still had not been enough.

He wanted to stand on the same stage that Yoru would be on, looking him in the eye. 

Jamie pulled his helmet off and slammed it down onto the seat, exhaling hard. He had given everything. Every ounce of energy he had, every inch of his focus. And yet it was not enough to simply drive through him. 

“I’m your pace car.”

The image of Yoru’s Red Bull crossing the line first, his victory so effortless, played on loop in Jamie’s mind. Yoru had not even fought for it. He did not need to. That was what pissed Jamie off the most. Yoru had been so calm , so in control , like he was toying with everyone. Like he was not racing at all. 

Because racing would be in his blood. 

The young prodigy who skipped Formula Two, they had called him. 

The driver who had gotten his super licence before the age of 19. 

The heat in his chest flared again, a fire that had nothing to do with the heat of the track, nothing to do with the tire wear or the stupid strategy call. It was the way Yoru made him feel like a shadow . Always just behind, never enough to catch him.

He slammed his helmet down onto the seat, the sound harsh and jarring, and turned away, not caring who saw. Not caring about the eyes that followed him as he stormed toward the paddock, his footsteps heavy and angry. 

He wanted to scream, to punch something , to release all of it.

“Fourth fucking place,” he muttered under his breath, but the words only tasted bitter. I’m your pace car. That was all that echoed in his head. He had fought like hell out there, pushing every limit, and it still had not been enough. 

He had to accept that reality, but it felt like swallowing glass.

Because how could he begin to accept that he was not even second in his own race?

As he tore off the gloves as the usual hum of post-race activities filled his ears. The adrenaline still ran through his veins, but it was not a rush. It was a simmering frustration that refused to die.

The sound of footsteps approaching broke him from his spiralling thoughts. He did not have to turn to know who it was. Sabine’s presence was unmistakable, the clacking of heels that cut through the din. 

“I know it’s not easy.” She said, her voice low, the words carrying the weight of something like resignation. “You will bounce back, we are not even halfway through the season yet. We still have time.” 

Jamie did not respond because he did not have the energy to give the response he knew she wanted. He had held it together—yeah, that was exactly what he had done. But he did not feel like a racer. He did not feel like someone who was getting better, improving. He felt like a shadow of the driver he should be, playing the role he had been told to play, and it was suffocating. 

Because “bouncing back” was not the point. He felt the burn of being just short. Again . The race had been his chance, his moment to prove he was more than the guy who had to let Amir through, and now that moment was gone.

“Fourth place,” Jamie muttered under his breath again, the words tasting even more bitter now. A little louder this time. “ Fourth place.” 

He slammed his fist into the side of his car. The sound of it echoed through the pit, sharp and jarring, drawing a few glances from the nearby crew. 

A hand clapped down on his shoulder, and he turned, startled, to see Amir standing next to him. Amir’s eyes were full of that familiar, unreadable expression, like he could see straight through Jamie and into everything he was feeling. There was a flicker of something in his gaze—pity? Maybe. Maybe understanding. But it was gone too quickly for Jamie to be sure.

“You know Sabine is right . That wasn’t easy,” Amir said, his voice low, almost casual, but there was an edge to it. “But you held it together out there.”

Jamie swallowed the sharp retort that rose in his throat. “Yeah, held it together. Not much else I could do.”

Amir studied him for a moment longer before nodding. 

“You’re a part of this team, Jamie,” Sabine said, her voice slightly softer now. “Sometimes, that means playing the role you’re asked to. It’s not about the glory, or the ego. It’s about getting the job done.”

Jamie wanted to snap back. He wanted to say something biting, something that would show Sabine  he was not just some pawn being shuffled around for someone else’s game. That the team strategists had no righ to pull the reins on his performance.

But she was not wrong, she rarely was. There was no point in denying it. He had been told to move aside, and he had. 

It was part of his job.

But still, it stung.

“I get it,” Jamie muttered, forcing the words past his lips. “I get it.”

Both of them seemed satisfied with the response, but Amir’s gaze lingered a moment longer, his lips twitching as if debating whether to say more. Then, with a resigned sigh, he clapped Jamie on the back again, harder this time, and they stepped away, going back to discussing the seemingly larger issue at hand. Leaving Jamie alone with the weight of the race, of the decision that had been made for him, and of the unmistakable burn of frustration that seemed to refuse to fade.

The adrenaline that had coursed through him was gone now, replaced by an emptiness that gnawed at him from the inside. It was not just the race; it was the knowledge that no matter how hard he pushed, no matter how close he had come, it was not enough. Yoru, that damn Red Bull, was still ahead. Always ahead.

Jamie’s gaze flicked across the pit, searching for him. The Red Bull driver was standing off to the side with Vincent, calmly discussing telemetry like the race had been a walk in the park. Yoru’s usual cool, almost aloof demeanour was on full display, no sign of the tension or frustration that had twisted Jamie’s gut. He had not even glanced at Jamie, not once, as if their positions—his own fourth, Yoru’s victory—had already been decided long before they had crossed that finish line.

And there it was again—the tight feeling in Jamie’s chest, the gnawing bitterness. How could Yoru make it look so effortless? Like it was not a fight at all? Every time Jamie thought he might catch up, Yoru pulled just enough to stay ahead, to keep him chasing, always out of reach. It was like Yoru was racing on another plane entirely, a driver untouched by the pressure that seemed to cripple him.

The Red Bull was sleek, its lines perfect, moving with the precision of someone who didn’t need to push harder to make a difference. Yoru’s car, his decisions, were all made with a quiet confidence Jamie could not seem to match. No last-minute pushes, no desperation. 

Just calm, calculated, and ruthless.

“I’m your pace car.”