Until my Last Breath

104

Silverstone, England

The week had already felt like a dream. Silverstone always meant something different, something bigger, but this time the anticipation sat lighter in my chest because he was here. No crutches, no brace. Just him-walking beside me like the injury had finally loosened its grip.

I'd spent days dragging him around, introducing him to every corner that held a piece of me: Maverick bounding along the country lanes, the house that still smelled faintly of my mother's perfume, the airfield roads I once sped on before I was even licensed. He laughed, teased, took it all in with wide eyes, like seeing me against the backdrop of home made him understand me more.

And tonight-tonight was the part I'd been holding close, waiting for the right moment.

The French restaurant sat tucked away on a narrow street, lanterns glowing above the doorway, the same way they had when I was little. My breath caught as I pushed the door open, a wave of memory breaking over me. The last time I'd been here had been with her. The way her eyes lit up at the sight of the chalkboard menu. The way she told me stories of coming here with my dad when life was still whole.

Now it was me, walking in hand-in-hand with him.

He glanced around, curious. "This place is... beautiful."

"It's more than that," I whispered, pulling him toward a table near the window. My chest tightened, but it was a good kind of ache. "My dad used to bring us here. And the last time I came was with my mom... right before..." I trailed off, the words sticking.

His hand slid over mine, grounding. "Riri..."

I swallowed hard, forcing a small smile. "I wanted you to see it. To know this part of me. Because it's not just my race here-it's home. And I wanted my home to meet you."

For a moment, he didn't say anything. Just looked at me, really looked, until his eyes softened in that way that always undid me. Then he leaned across the table and pressed the gentlest kiss against my hand.

"Gracias," he murmured. "For letting me in."

The waiter came, menus appeared, but I barely noticed. All I felt was the warmth in my chest, the kind I hadn't known in so long-the kind that made even the ghosts feel less heavy.

Because for the first time since that last night with her, I wasn't sitting in this restaurant with grief as my only company. I was here with him. And that made everything different.

-

Dinner felt like laughter bottled into hours. The food was perfect, yes, but it was him-the way he couldn't stop pulling faces when he tried something new, the way he leaned back in his chair with that boyish grin like he owned the world just because he was with me. I hadn't laughed this much in a long time, the kind of laugh that makes your stomach ache and your cheeks hurt, and I think he knew it, too, because he kept pushing for more.

But somewhere between dessert and the wine he suddenly went suspicious. His eyes narrowed, mischief written all over his face. "You're hiding something."

I tilted my head, trying to look innocent, swirling my glass. "Am I?"

"Yes," he said without hesitation, leaning forward, elbows on the table like a child about to uncover a secret stash of sweets. "You've got that look. The one you get before you drop something on me."

I couldn't help smiling. "Maybe. Maybe not."

That was all the fuel he needed. He practically bounced in his seat, firing guesses as if this was the most important game he'd ever played.