The Mercedes garage was a low hum of activity, mechanics murmuring over engines, monitors flashing with data, but in the back room, it was just you and Kimi. The room was dim, the blinds half-drawn to keep the world out. Kimi sat on the small couch, his race suit pulled down to his waist, fireproof shirt clinging to his damp skin. His hair was tousled, eyes heavy-lidded and unfocused, the adrenaline still simmering beneath his exhaustion.

“You came,” he said softly, leaning back against the couch, eyes searching yours. There was something raw in the way he looked at you, like he was still that boy from primary school, eyes wide with the thrill of karting, cheeks flushed from the wind. Back then, he’d always find you in the crowd, that easy grin breaking across his face whenever he saw you cheering.

Now, he was older, sharper, yet somehow softer here in the shadows with you. He lifted his arm, silently inviting you closer. The air between you was charged, unspoken things hanging like a breath held too long.

When you settled beside him, Kimi exhaled, his hand finding your waist, his face pressing into the curve of your neck. “Been thinking about you,” he murmured, his words muffled against your skin. “More than I should.”

His fingers slid up, tangling in your hair, his breath warm against your throat. “Play with my hair,” he said, quieter now, his tone edging into something deeper, something that didn’t feel like friendship anymore.