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The train’s iron heart pulsed beneath the floorboards, a mournful cadence that echoed the ache in Hot Pants’ chest. The carriage was a hollowed relic, its wooden benches scarred, its lanterns casting a sickly amber glow that flickered like a dying pulse. Outside, the night swallowed the American plains, a vast, indifferent void stretching toward a horizon she could no longer map.
She sat by the window, her reflection a ghost in the glass—her racer’s jacket, scuffed and dust-worn from the Steel Ball Run, clung to her frame. No nun’s habit tonight, no veil to shield her from the world. Just her, raw and exposed, the weight of the race still heavy in her bones.
The door at the far end of the carriage groaned open, and her breath caught. She knew that silhouette before she saw his face—the sharp angles, the swagger that defied exhaustion. Diego Brando stepped inside, his jockey cap tilted low, the brim shadowing his piercing blue-green eyes. His coat was unbuttoned, revealing the blood-stained shirt beneath, a testament to the race’s toll. He paused, spotting her, and for a moment, the air between them crackled, charged with a history too tangled to name. He slid into the seat across from her, uninvited, his movements deliberate, like a predator choosing its ground.
The train lurched forward, and silence settled, heavy as the dust they’d left behind. Hot Pants kept her gaze on the window, tracing the blur of stars, willing her heart to still. But Diego’s presence was a flame at her back, inescapable. She felt his eyes on her, sharp as a blade, cutting through her carefully built walls.
“Some view,” he said at last, his voice low, almost casual, but laced with something softer, like he was testing the waters. “You’d think after all that racing, we’d get tired of staring at nothing.”
Hot Pants didn’t turn, but her lips twitched, a ghost of a smile she smothered quickly. “It’s not nothing,” she murmured, her voice rough from disuse. “It’s… quiet.”
He snorted, leaning back, his boots scuffing the floor. “Quiet’s overrated. You spend enough time in it, you start hearing things you don’t want to.” He paused, his fingers drumming on the armrest, a restless rhythm. “Like the sound of your own mistakes.”
She glanced at him then, caught off guard by the confession buried in his flippancy. His eyes met hers, and for a heartbeat, they were back in the race—blood and sand, their Stands clashing in sync, her Cream Starter mending his wounds while his Scary Monsters roared. The memory stung, sharp and vivid, and she looked away, her throat tight.
“Back to the church, then?” Diego’s voice broke the silence again, still light, but now with an edge, like he was prying at a wound. “Gonna kneel and pray your way out of all this?”
She stiffened, her hands curling into fists on her lap. Her racer’s gloves, still stained with the grime of the trail, creaked softly. “Yes,” she said, the word clipped, final. She didn’t elaborate, didn’t trust herself to.
Diego’s jaw tightened, his casual mask slipping. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his gaze unrelenting. “That’s it? Just ‘yes’?” His voice was sharper now, the small talk fraying at the edges. “You’re gonna sit there, after everything—after the blood, the fights, the damn corpse —and act like you can just walk away?”
Hot Pants’ heart thudded, a traitor to her calm. She turned to him, her pink eyes blazing, raw with the weight of unspoken things. “What do you want, Diego?” Her voice trembled, betraying her. “You want me to spill my soul? To tell you what it cost me to keep going out there? What’s the point?”
“The point?” He stood, his shadow looming as the train swayed, his voice rising like a storm. “The point is you’re not a damn statue, HP. I saw you out there—every time you stitched me up, every time you looked at me like I wasn’t just some bastard clawing for the top. You think I didn’t feel it? You think I don’t know? ”
Her breath caught, his words a knife twisting in her chest. She rose to meet him, her racer’s boots planting firmly on the creaking floor, her face inches from his. “You don’t know me,” she hissed, her voice a low, trembling blade. “You think you do, but you don’t. You’re Diego Brando, the man who’d burn the world for a crown. Don’t pretend you care about me.”
His eyes flashed, a storm of blue-green fire, and for a moment, she thought he’d lash out. But then his expression cracked, raw and unguarded, a glimpse of the boy beneath the ambition.
“Maybe I don’t,” he said, his voice softer, almost broken. “Maybe I’m just a selfish bastard. But I saw you, Hot Pants. I saw you fight for me when you didn’t have to. And now you’re running back to your church, like it’ll erase everything we—”
“JUST SHUT UP.” Those words tore from her, louder than she meant, echoing in the empty carriage. Her hands shook, her eyes burning with unshed tears. “You don’t get to do this, Diego. You don’t get to make me feel like I owe you something. The race is over. We’re done.”
“Done?” His laugh was a jagged thing, raw and hollow. He stepped closer, so close she could feel the heat of him, smell the leather and sweat of the race still clinging to his skin. “You think you can just cut me out? Like I’m nothing? I’m not the one running, Hot Pants. You are. ”
Her chest heaved, her vision blurring. The memories flooded back—his hand steadying her after a fall, the way his voice softened when he thought she wasn’t listening, the small kisses they shared, the unspoken trust that had tethered them through the chaos. She wanted to scream, to shove him away, to bury the ache that clawed at her heart.
“I have to,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I have to go back. It’s all I have left.”
Diego’s hand hovered near her face, then dropped, his fingers curling into a fist. “You’re wrong,” he said, his voice low, almost a growl. “You had me. You still do.”
The words hung between them, fragile as glass, shattering the last of her defenses. Her eyes met his, and for a moment, the world was just them—the train’s sway, the flicker of the lantern, the unspoken truth that neither could fully voice. She wanted to reach for him, to bridge the chasm, but her duty, her guilt, her fear held her back.
The train slowed, its whistle a mournful cry piercing the night. Diego grabbed his bag, his movements sharp, but he paused at the door. He turned back, his eyes softer now, a quiet storm. Without a word, he reached out, his fingers brushing hers—just a fleeting touch, warm and deliberate, a promise and a goodbye woven into one. Her breath hitched, her hand trembling where his had been.
“Good luck, Hot Pants,” he said, his voice rough but laced with something tender, something that would haunt her. The door slammed shut, and he was gone, his silhouette swallowed by the platform’s shadows.
Hot Pants sank back into her seat, her fingers curling around the ghost of his touch. The train carried her forward, toward a life of penance and prayer, but her heart lingered behind, tethered to the man who’d seen her, truly seen her, and let her go.