Page 52 of Until The Lights Go Out

“That is exactly what fresh tires give you. Perfect execution.”

The screens showed the Kaz garage celebrating. I swallowed, forcing myself back into analyst mode.

“And now,” I said, steadier, “it becomes a question of defense. Can he maintain that pace over the remaining laps, or will degradation come into play?”

The second the red light blinked off, I let out a breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding. The race was over, and we were in the parc fermé, watching the first three drivers pull up to their spots, get out, and cheer the crowds on.

“Nice control there,” the producer said.

“Yeah.” I nodded, still watching the screens. “What a lovely day for racing, huh?” I looked around at the beautiful chaos of post-race. The crowd in Melbourne had an electric energy. I loved every single moment of it. I let myself soak it in: my first live strategic commentary during a race. The adrenaline pumped through me, a high fueled by the cheering from teams gathering and waiting for their drivers.

I turned to see Theo walking over, fresh out of the car, helmet off, adrenaline still buzzing through him. His race suit hung loose at his waist, hair damp, eyes sharper than before.

Alive in a way that only racing made him.

He walked straight toward me.

“You look very calm for your first race back,” he said.

I crossed my arms, lifting a brow. “It’s called professionalism.”

“Mm,” he hummed. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“Oh?” I shot back. “What gave me away?”

“That little crease between your eyebrows.” His voice dropped before he smirked again. “But I can see the excitement too. Fun to be back in it, huh? Rooting for me, Andrews?”

I scoffed and forced my lips into a frown, but a blush crept up my neck despite myself.

“You were.”

“I was appreciating strategic execution.”

“Sure.” He stepped a fraction closer, lowering his voice just enough that it didn’t carry. “You were rooting for me.”

My stomach flipped.

“I was rooting for the strategy,” I corrected.

“Right.”

A beat.

Then, softer, “Good call, by the way.”

That caught me off guard. “What?”

“The safety car window,” he said. “You read it before we even made the call.”

I blinked at him. “You heard that?”

“It was relayed to me,” he said.

Of course it was.

“Well…I was right.”

“You were,” he agreed. And the way he said it—steady, certain—did something to my composure.