She was 19. And I was 25. It wasn’t a huge gap—not really. But sometimes, it felt like a chasm, an invisible line drawn between where she was and where I had already been.

She had dreams, big ones. She wanted to be a race engineer, to travel the world, to stand in the garage with a headset on, analyzing data, making split-second decisions. I admired that about her—her determination, the way her eyes lit up whenever she talked about aerodynamics and tire degradation like they were the most fascinating things in the world.

And maybe that’s why this was a problem. Because I liked her. More than I should.

We met through McLaren’s young engineers' program. At first, she was just another intern, wide-eyed but sharp, absorbing everything like a sponge. She had this way of challenging me—not in the way reporters did, not in the way other drivers did on the track—but in a way that made me actually think. About racing, about life, about her.

I told myself it was just admiration. Nothing more. But then came the late nights in the garage, the endless conversations, the way she’d smile at me. And suddenly, it wasn’t just admiration anymore.

One night, we sat on the pit wall long after everyone else had gone. The track lights cast a soft glow around us, the scent of burnt rubber still lingering in the air.

“You ever think about what comes next?” she asked, legs swinging slightly over the edge.

“For you or for me?” I smirked.

“For both.”

I exhaled, staring out at the empty circuit. “I don’t know. I try not to think too far ahead.”

She nudged my shoulder. “Liar.”

I laughed. “Okay, maybe a little. But I’m already where I wanted to be. You still have the whole world ahead of you.”

She turned to look at me then, really look at me. “And that’s why you won’t let yourself like me, isn’t it?”

My stomach tightened. I should have denied it, played it off as nothing, but the way she said it—so matter-of-fact, so sure—made it impossible.

“You’re 19,” I murmured. “You’re still figuring things out.”