heat on track

Singapore's humidity was relentless, clinging to my skin like a second layer of clothing. Even at night, the heat barely let up, making the air thick and heavy. I had just wrapped up my post-free practice work, my mind still buzzing from everything that had happened on and off track.

Eva had finally joined me for a race weekend, and we decided to take advantage of our free evening by exploring the streets near Marina Bay. The city was alive, lights reflecting off the glass skyscrapers, the buzz of people adding to the atmosphere. We'd stopped at a small stand selling ice cream. I opted for a classic vanilla-chocolate convo, the coolness a welcome relief from the heat.

"Okay, okay, hold it like that," Eva instructed, phone in hand, as she adjusted the camera angle. "Tilt your head a little, let the ice cream drip—there! Sexy but effortless."

I rolled my eyes but played along, licking the ice cream dramatically as Eva snapped pictures. I wore a linen two-piece set, light and airy, perfect for the weather. The top was cropped, exposing my smal part of my stomach, and the high-waisted skirt showed just enough leg to make me feel confident.

Eva smirked. "You have to post this one. Lando's going to lose his mind."

I snorted. "Why would Lando care?"

She gave me a knowing look. "Oh, please. Like I don't see the way he looks at you when he thinks no one's watching."

I rolled my eyes again, but when I glanced at the photo, I had to admit it was a good one. ice cream shop blurred in the background, my lips slightly parted, ice cream in hand, a teasing expression on my face. Without overthinking, I uploaded it to my Instagram with the caption:

It didn't take long.

My phone vibrated with a message. I knew who it was before even looking.

The heat from the Singapore night suddenly felt ten times worse. My heart raced, my fingers hovering over the keyboard, wondering if I should tease him further. I didn't have to wonder for long—another message came in before I could respond.

My breath caught in my throat.

The three dots appeared and disappeared a few times before he finally replied.

Holy. Shit.

I swallowed hard, my mouth suddenly dry despite the melting ice cream in my hand. Eva nudged me, noticing my expression.

"You look like you just got the filthiest text of your life," she whispered.

I turned the screen away from her. "Shut up."

I stared at my phone, debating my next move. The tension between us had been growing ever since we left Mallorca, ever since we stepped back into our professional roles and tried—tried—to act like nothing had changed. But it had. It so obviously had.

I squeezed my thighs together instinctively, the ache in my stomach growing unbearable. He wasn't holding back tonight, and it was doing something to me.

My pulse thundered as I watched the dots appear again. The street around me faded, the sounds of people and traffic disappearing into the background. All that existed in that moment was my phone, his name on the screen, and the anticipation building between us.

I exhaled shakily, my entire body thrumming with energy. Eva was watching me with an amused grin, fully aware of what was happening even if she couldn't see the messages.

I locked my phone and sighed. "Yeah. And I think I like it."

Qualifying days were always the most chaotic—high stakes, intense focus, and an unspoken tension that filled the air. But today, for me, there was an added layer to the chaos. It wasn't just about the drivers fighting for pole or the energy buzzing through the paddock. It was the lingering awareness of Lando's presence.

After qualifying, I found herself scrolling through my phone in the media room, sipping on a bottle of water, when a notification from Instagram popped up.

Kill Illman tagged you in a post.

Curious, I clicked on it, only to be met with a picture of my from earlier in the day—headset around my neck, phone in hand, the sun catching just the right angles of my face. 

My phone vibrated almost immediately after. A message from Lando.

I smirked, my fingers hovering over the keyboard.

My breath caught slightly, my stomach tightening. It was always like this with him. We could go hours pretending nothing was different, that we were just two professionals in the same world, but then a single text or cheeky picture would pull us right back to where we left off in Spain.

I bit my lip, shaking my head. He was impossible.

My fingers hesitated over the screen. He was right, in a way. I had chosen that particular outfit today knowing it looked good, knowing people would take notice. But I hadn't expected him to text me about it.

I exhaled sharply, pressing my phone to my chest for a moment. This was dangerous territory, but God, did I love the thrill of it.

My heart pounded,my fingers tightening around the phone. I wasn't even trying to be subtle anymore.

I swallowed hard, shifting in my seat. He was now teasing back with pictures. Did I miss him? Yes. Would I tell him that? Not a chance.

I let out a breath, closing my eyes for a second. The truth was, the push and pull between us was addicting. The way he knew exactly how to get under my skin, how to make me react—it was infuriating, but also exhilarating.

A few minutes passed before another message popped up.

I stared at the message, chewing on my lower lip. I should shut this down. I should remind him that we had agreed to keep things strictly professional during race weekends. But instead, my fingers typed out a response before I could stop myself.

I shook my head, letting out a slow breath. If he did podium, I'd have to deal with whatever this was between us, head-on. But the truth was, I wasn't sure if I even wanted to resist it anymore.