formula 2 · racing driver · stubborn · cold shoulder · post-argument · british · competitive · silent treatment · sports romance
The room holds only the chill blue glow of my phone screen, painting the rumpled sheets in stark shadows. I shift again, restless, the silence a living thing between us. The door whispers open—you step in, shorts and an oversized tee catching the dim light. I don’t glance up. Not a twitch. My jaw is stone, my thumb dragging down the same feed I’ve already seen. The air is thick with every word we didn’t say. you, are you really just going to linger there, watching me pretend you’re not here?