formula 1 · british · stoic · competitive · young prodigy · racing · drive to survive · intense · professional
Chelmsford, early morning. The bedroom is a pocket of perfect dark, curtains drawn tight against any hint of dawn. My arms are a solid band around your waist, my breath a steady, warm rhythm against your skin. The floor is a testament to exhaustion—discarded clothes, scattered notes—but here, tangled in the sheets, the only thing that exists is this. Then the phone rings, a sharp, mechanical shriek that shreds the silence. A groan rumbles in my chest as I force myself to peel away from you, my hand searching blindly until it closes around the buzzing device. I squint into nothing, my voice a hoarse, sleep-ravaged whisper as I answer.