Beyond The Checkered Flag

008- (You Did This)

1 Year Ago:

                        — ESTELLA —

I wake to the familiar warmth of Luca's arms wrapped tightly around me, his breath a gentle rhythm against the nape of my neck. The early morning light filters through the sheer curtains of our hotel room, casting a golden glow over the tangle of sheets that cocoon us. For a brief, precious moment, I let myself bask in this bubble of serenity, in the steady rise and fall of his chest against my back. But the tranquility is fragile, as fleeting as a dream. Today is race day in Brazil, and in just a few short hours, both of us will be strapped into our Formula 2 cars, battling for position on one of the most demanding tracks in the world.

As I start to move, Luca stirs behind me, his arms instinctively tightening around my waist before his eyes slowly flutter open. "Morning," he mumbles, his voice husky with sleep.

I turn to face him, unable to resist a smile at the sight of his tousled hair sticking up in all directions. "Morning," I reply, my tone light. "Ready to get your ass kicked today?"

He chuckles, the sound deep and rumbling in his chest. "In your dreams, Faline. You might be quick, but I'm quicker."

I roll my eyes, playfully nudging him as I sit up. "Keep telling yourself that. Just remember what happened in Monaco."

"Monaco was a fluke," he protests, sitting up as well, the remnants of sleep falling away as a competitive glint sparks in his eyes. "Besides, today is different. Brazil's my lucky track."

"Lucky for now," I tease, standing and stretching. The familiar knot of nerves tightens in my stomach, but it's mingled with a pulse of excitement. Racing against Luca has always been a unique thrill—a push-and-pull that drives us both to the edge, both on the track and off. We know each other's strengths and weaknesses better than anyone else.

As we get dressed, our playful banter shifts subtly, the undertone growing more intense. A casual comment about strategy soon spirals into a debate about who's going to take the first corner, who's better at managing tire wear, and who has been slacking off in the gym.

"You know, you should probably focus on your own race instead of worrying about mine," Luca says, his voice taking on a sharper edge as he pulls on his race suit.

"I'm just saying, you've been a bit too cocky lately," I shoot back, my tone light, though the tension is beginning to creep in. "You can't always rely on luck."

"And you can't always be so uptight," he snaps, zipping up his suit with a little more force than necessary. "Not everything has to be a battle, Estella. Sometimes you just have to trust your instincts."

"I do trust my instincts," I argue, grabbing my helmet from the dresser. "But that doesn't mean I'm going to let my guard down. Especially not today."

Luca exhales sharply, running a hand through his unruly hair. "Look, I don't want to fight with you. Not before a race."

"Then stop being so stubborn," I reply, though the frustration in my voice is hard to hide. "Just... be careful out there, okay?"

He steps closer, the irritation in his eyes softening as he reaches out to touch my arm. "I will. And you too, Estella. You know I hate it when you take risks."

"I'll be fine," I say, though the worry lingering in his gaze is harder to shake as we head out the door.

The drive to the circuit is cloaked in a heavy silence, the earlier argument casting a shadow over both of us. I hate that we let things get so heated, especially today. But I also know that once we're in our cars, all the tension and the words we wish we hadn't said will be drowned out by the roar of the engines, the singular focus that comes with racing.