𝐄𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐡. ||𝐂𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐬 𝐒𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐳 𝐣𝐫.

8| Smoke

The tension during race day in the paddock was unmatched and although she'd barely spoken to Carlos, she could easily feel the pressure he was under.

Ophelia had seen him that morning but when she'd gone looking for him, the idiot was nowhere to be found.

The only person she had the misfortune to meet was her superior who was delighted to know she'd finished her work, only to send her off to fetch him a cup of coffee.

Now she was just speeding through the crowded paddock, a steaming cup in one hand while the other barely managed to serve as a lid.

Of course they'd have interns do the filthy job.

Work experience my ass, this was pure exploitation.

She grunted as she tried to make her way through the mass of people. Her shoulder bumped into someone, the impact sent a few drops of boiling coffee flying.

She hissed at the burning sensation on the palm of her hand.

"Shit. I'm sorry..."

She looked back at the person she hit, the same lean silhouette she'd seen the previous day. A dark brown eye glared down at her, while the other was a grayish blue that didn't perceive her.

She's seen it before, in books and pictures, but never has she seen a blind eye up close.

It remained a reminder of what was a window of the world, but now is merely a hollow extension of ice.

Seemed like the scar didn't completely miss his eye after all.

"Watch where you're going." His voice was rough and similar to a growl, just hearing it made her uncomfortable.

She apologized more than she had to, but he seemed just as displeased, the only thing that snatched his attention away was his colleague who called him back in.

This guy was beyond strange.

"Stronza," he spat, and without sparing Ophelia a second glance; the man clicked his tongue and walked back to his box.

Ophelia didn't move.

Stronza.

Bitch.

She hadn't heard that word in years.

Probably because not many people spoke Italian in France, and the ones who did were certainly not that vulgar -at least not in public-.

Her hands instinctively tightened, slightly wrinkling the cup she forgot she held. It was not hot and steamy anymore but hopefully warm enough not to have the other medic complain about it.

Ophelia made her way to the Ferrari garage. She'd left yesterday's encounters behind and avoided thinking about them, knowing it would somehow mess up with her day. But she wasn't sure she'd be able to block them out for much longer.

That guy...

When he first spoke to her, she thought she had imagined the thickness of his accent. Force of habit to blame.
Although she was now certain she didn't make it up.

This entire situation pissed her off.

Questions flooded her incomprehensive mind one after the other, only blurring the line of her thoughts more.

Who was that man and why was the simple sight of him enough to make Ophelia freeze? Enough to make her heart beat abnormally fast? Enough for her to feel so helpless she only wished to bury herself underground and cease to exist.

She recognized this feeling, and even if she wouldn't admit it, deep inside she knew.

Ophelia was scared, no, terrified of this man.