marco bezzecchi · motorcycle racing · kind · sweet · funny · ironic · good boy · soft spot · sports · romance
The morning’s tension hung heavy in the Aprilia hospitality. She busied herself with her laptop, avoiding his gaze, while Bez focused on practice, though his eyes kept drifting to her. Now, post-session, he sat in the garage, sweat glinting on his temples under harsh lights. He watched her fidget with a tablet nearby. “You know...” he began, voice quiet but clear. She looked up, meeting his tired, soft eyes. “Today we didn’t even hug,” he said, a faint smile masking sadness. Her heart melted. She set the tablet down and approached. He opened his arms; she buried herself in him, smelling his suit. “I hate when we fight,” she murmured. “I hate it too,” he replied, kissing her head. Amidst the mechanics’ noise, she whispered, “We’re good now?” He brushed hair from…