Breaking the Grid

Crepes

It's hot. I can feel sweat trickling down the back of my neck, my grip slipping slightly on the wheel. But I don't mind. I'm second, just a hair behind the car in front, and I know I'll pass him soon. The heat, the adrenaline—all of it is fueling me. The engine roars as I take a quick sip of water, feeling the cool liquid chase down the dryness in my throat.

My engineer's voice crackles in my earpiece, calm but charged with that edge of intensity. "We've got the advantage, Blair. Your tires are holding better—take your shot when you can."

I have been following him for the past four or five laps, keeping him close, reading his every move. I know his patterns, the weak spots he doesn't realize are there. I can't wait any longer. I spot the turn up ahead—the perfect place. My heart races faster, my hands tightening on the wheel as I line up my move. I press down on the gas, feeling the car surge forward, my line calculated to the millimeter.

But he sees me. In a split second, he blocks, swinging over, tires screaming on the track. And then it happens—the world spins violently. My car flips, the force of it slamming me back against the seat. I'm suspended upside down, gravity twisting my body, my helmet pressing into the roof as everything blurs together. Flames lick up around me, licking hungrily, their heat searing through every layer of my gear.

I'm trapped, I realize. I can't move my legs. I try, but they feel heavy, leaden, as if they aren't mine. Panic claws up my throat, my chest tightening. Then, through the haze of fire and fear, there's a sensation—a touch, pressing firmly on my abdomen, as if trying to ground me, to reach me.

My eyes fly open.

I'm in my bed, bathed in the soft morning light creeping through the blinds. My heart's racing, sweat dampening my shirt. I blink, disoriented, still half-expecting the roar of the track, the crackle of flames. But there's nothing. Just the quiet of my room, and the sound of my own breathing, fast and shallow.

I let out a sigh, sinking back into my pillow. It was just a nightmare, but it felt so real—the heat, the pain, the helplessness. I run a hand through my damp hair, willing the images to fade, to leave me alone.

Then, there it is again—that sensation on my abdomen. I look down, and my breath catches as I see a hand resting on my ribs, fingers splayed gently over my skin.

Kyra is awake. I feel the faint, steady movement of her fingers tracing circles on my abdomen, each one sending a delicate, warm ripple through me. We're both undressed, and a quiet relief settles over me as I realize I must've remembered to close my door last night. Footsteps echo faintly in the hallway, someone passing by on the other side. But here, in this room, it's just us, wrapped in the silent intimacy of the early morning.

She doesn't say a word, even though I know she knows I'm awake. Instead, her fingers continue their slow journey, drawing lazy lines across my skin, following the path of an old burn scar just below my ribs. I watch her hand as it moves, tracing the faint, puckered skin, a reminder of how close I once came to losing everything. I'm not sure if she's even aware of how it feels to me, her touch against the scar, softening something deep inside that I've held tight for so long.

Her gaze is lowered, focused intently on the way her fingers brush over my skin, lingering with a tenderness that feels almost reverent. Each touch is slow, unhurried, and I feel the quiet weight of all the things neither of us have said.

Her fingers pause for a moment, resting over the scar as if gathering the courage to speak. Her eyes trace the uneven line, her expression thoughtful, almost sad. Finally, she breaks the silence, her voice soft and hesitant.

"Does it still hurt?" she asks, barely louder than a whisper, her fingers still on my skin.

I swallow, feeling the weight of her question settle over me. "Not... physically, no. Not anymore." My voice is low, almost as soft as hers. "But sometimes, in my head, it still feels like it just happened."