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The summer break began not with a glamorous party, but with the hum of an airplane engine and the slow, reluctant unfurling of her body into the seat. The last race weekend before the pause had been a blur of sweat, strategy meetings, and the constant press of expectation, but now, strapped into her seat on the flight back to Italy, Mikha felt a rare quiet seeping into her bones.
She stared out the window at the dimming sky, the gold edges of sunset fading into violet and blue, and let herself sink into the thought of what came next. No grid calls. No split-second decisions over the radio. No endless back-and-forth about tire strategy. Just… a pause. A breath she could actually hold.
By the time she landed, the weight of the Ferrari polo on her back felt almost symbolic, an old skin she could shed the moment she stepped into Maranello. But she didn’t expect to see her waiting at the arrivals gate.
Aiah was leaning casually against the barrier, jeans and a simple white top, hair loose like she hadn’t even tried — though Mikha knew better. She always tried, just never in ways that looked like effort. Her lips curved into that soft, knowing smile that made Mikha’s pulse slow in her chest.
The crowd noise dulled the moment she saw her. The busy airport around her dissolved in a single heartbeat. Mikha’s hands were already lifting to cradle Aiah’s face before her duffle bag hit the floor, pulling her in for a kiss hello. Not rushed. Not distracted. Just hers.
Aiah smiles against Mikha’s lips and pulls away to nuzzle her face into the driver’s neck, “You’re mine for the entire summer break, gorgeous.”
“I wouldn’t want it any other way, my angel.” Mikha whispers back,
“I missed you so much.”
The first few days passed in a kind of domestic fog. Mornings bled into afternoons without urgency, breakfast stretching into second cups of coffee on the balcony. Conversations ran long and soft, sometimes dissolving into quiet where the only sound was the city beyond and the occasional clink of cups. Mikha found herself lingering over small things: the way sunlight hit the edge of Aiah’s cheekbone as she scrolled on her phone, the sound of water boiling in the kitchen, the steady tick of the clock in the hallway.
The stillness was addictive.
On the third morning, Aiah set down her mug and said, as if it were casual conversation,
“I booked us a Pilates session tomorrow.”
Mikha, mid-bite of toast, gave her a look.
“You booked yourself a Pilates session.”
“I booked us ,” Aiah repeated, with the faintest trace of a smirk.
The next day, Mikha found herself in a quiet, mirror-lined studio, lying on a mat and realizing ten minutes in that she was hopelessly out of her element. Every movement Aiah executed looked like a slow dance – measured, graceful, purposeful. Meanwhile, Mikha was shaking through each pose, her core trembling like she’d just been asked to lift an engine block.
Halfway through, she tried to transition into a side plank and collapsed face-first into the mat.
“That was not my fault,” she mumbled into the floor.
“It’s literally gravity, gorgeous.” Aiah said, grinning as she offered a hand up.
But on the walk home, Aiah laced their fingers together and gave a squeeze. “You did really well for your first time,” she said quietly. Mikha rolled her eyes, but her chest felt warm. Maybe the point wasn’t being good at it. Maybe it was just being there beside her.
Not every day was activity. Some were nothing but rest. One afternoon, Mikha slept straight through until the sun dipped low, waking only when she felt the mattress shift and a gentle hand brushing her hair back.
“You okay?” Aiah whispered.
“Just… catching up,” Mikha murmured, voice heavy with sleep.
“Catch up as much as you need,” came the reply, soft against her temple, before Aiah slipped away and let her drift back under.
When Aiah worked, Mikha slipped into the role of quiet observer. She’d drop her off at shoots or meetings, sometimes linger nearby with a coffee in hand, other times wander streets she’d never noticed before. Once, she showed up to one of Aiah’s fittings unannounced, sitting in the corner under the guise of “making sure the lighting’s good.” In truth, she was storing away the way Aiah’s eyes crinkled when she laughed between takes, the little tilt of her chin when she adjusted to a new pose.
“You’re staring,” Aiah teased when the break rolled around.
“Am I supposed to look away?” Mikha shot back.
There were glamorous days too; the kind that shimmered like postcards. In true F1 fashion, a yacht afternoon was one of them. They were anchored somewhere off the coast, the water so still it looked poured from glass. Aiah wore a soft blue bikini that contrasted against Aiah’s golden skin in a way that made Mikha briefly forget her own name.
They lounged on the deck with champagne flutes beading condensation in the heat. Aiah stretched out beside her, sunglasses hiding her eyes but not the slow curl of her smile. Mikha had her phone out, supposedly for Instagram shots, but most of the photos she kept for herself – Aiah mid-laugh, hair tangled by the wind, her skin golden and warm.
Eventually, Aiah cracked one eye open.
“You’re supposed to be in these too,” she murmured.
“I like being behind the camera for this.”
“For this, or for me?”
“For you,” Mikha said, without missing a beat.
They kissed there, lazy and unhurried, the soft sway of the boat rocking them under a perfect blue sky.
The days blurred in the best way. Morning markets in little seaside towns, evenings with wine and music spilling through open windows. Walking hand-in-hand past shuttered shops. Arguing over where to eat for dinner. Debating if gelato at 10 a.m. was acceptable. ( It was. )
Once, during an evening in Florence, they stumbled upon a street musician playing violin in the golden light. They stayed, leaning against a wall, listening until the sky deepened to navy. Mikha swore she could feel the moment lodging itself into memory, like a pressed flower in the pages of her mind.
Some days they barely left the apartment. Aiah would curl up with her laptop on the couch, Mikha sprawled on the rug flipping through race footage she didn’t need to watch but wanted to study anyway. Every so often, Aiah would reach down to absently comb her fingers through Mikha’s hair, and the simple intimacy of it felt like the heart of the entire break.
One night in Milan, after a dinner that stretched too long over too many bottles of wine, they sat on Aiah’s balcony with their legs tangled under the table. The air smelled like summer still, but there was a faint edge to it, like the season knew it was winding down.
“Feels like it’s gone too fast,” Aiah murmured, head resting on Mikha’s shoulder.
“It always does,” Mikha said, kissing the top of her head.
She didn’t say the rest, that she’d carry these weeks into the chaos of the paddock, into every briefing and sleepless night. That this – the blurred days, the lazy mornings, the way Aiah’s laughter broke open the quiet , was the anchor she’d chase for the rest of the season.
Aiah made sure that Mikha’s all hers during the summer break, and Mikha – for once, let herself belong not to the track, not to the tifosi, but to Aiah alone.