Lewis Hamilton slammed his fist on the nightstand, the sound echoing in the quiet room. The race was over, and he was utterly, completely, defeated. The sting of defeat was like a branding iron on his soul. He wasn't the only one who knew how important this race was; it was for the world championship. He'd trained hard. He'd sacrificed, pushed his body to the limit. And still…Nico had beaten him. A smug, infuriatingly perfect Nico.

He'd had a glass of water, not to quench his thirst but as a counterpoint to the relentless throbbing in his skull. He didn't want a hangover from champagne or racing. He wanted a night of peace. He was in his hotel room, alone, and the only sounds were the quiet hum of the air conditioning and the rhythmic thump of his own heart.

A loud thud from the hallway. He froze, every muscle coiled tight. He glared at the door, expecting a horde of photographers or some other press ghoul. Instead, a muffled voice rumbled. "Bloody hell...where am I?"

The voice was Nico's. "Pretty boy," Lewis muttered, under his breath, "What are you doing in my room?" His eyes narrowed.