chapter 1 of golden boy | chapter 2
wc: ~10k | cw: smut, formula 1 au! f1 gojo/racer gojo x f1/racer reader! sexist/misogynistic themes, rough sex, biting, unprotected sex, public sex, creampie, rivals to lovers, slow burn.
summary: you’re the young american rookie driver on ferrari who is constantly overshadowed by your biggest rival and teammate—the golden boy, satoru gojo.
THE WORLD CALLS you a miracle.
Not the soft, flattering kind of miracle people print on magazine covers or the kind that gets written into inspirational children's books.
A name that shouldn't even exist beside Scuderia Ferrari's legacy but somehow does.
You're the young, twenty-one year old, American girl who clawed her way up through the ranks.
From tiny karting circuits to junior formulas filled with boys who were already being groomed by academies to the razor-thin margin where most dreams die before they ever touch Formula 1.
And yet, by miracle or pure talent alone, you made it.
You stand in the most exclusive paddock in the world, surrounded by the roar of engines worth millions, the scent of burning rubber, the glitter of cameras waiting to dissect your every breath, wearing Ferrari red.
The most prestigious team in Motorsport. The one children grow up drawing in crayon and old men defend over espresso as if it were religion. The team that wins hearts even in its losing seasons simply by existing.
Ferrari doesn't take risks on outsiders.
Which is why some people still look at you like you don't belong in your own uniform.
They hide behind polite smiles and thin professionalism, but you hear every whispered doubt.
“She's a diversity hire.”
“An American, seriously?”
“Ferrari should've chosen someone safer.”
“Why her when there are men waiting in line?”
And sometimes, when no one's trying to pretend, they don't even bother lowering their voices.
Being the only female driver on the grid makes you a novelty, being the only female driver on Ferrari makes you a target.
Half the paddock stares like you're a disruption, while the other half stares like you're a mistake waiting to happen.
The crown jewel of the team, the main reason half the fanbase buys tickets.
Japanese and twenty-four years old with experience. Unreasonably tall with face sculpted by some combination of genetics and God's sense of humor; white hair, pale blue eyes, a grin that looks expensive.
He is the man both broadcasters and fans treat like destiny incarnate.
If Ferrari were a monarchy, he'd be the prince everyone bows to.
He has talent that doesn't just look effortless—it is effortless.
Lap times that seem to materialize out of thin air; the kind of racecraft commentators replay for weeks, but talent alone isn't why they love him.
It's the way he carries himself. Chin tilted at the right angle to look confident but not arrogant, shoulders relaxed, voice smooth and amused; the aura of someone who never had to fight for his place because the world was already holding the door open.
He is adored by men, by women, by media, by sponsors, by Ferrari upper management who speak about him like he's the second coming of Michael Schumacher.
When he enters a room, the energy shifts. When you enter, the energy scrutinizes.
And he treats you like you're in the way. Not overtly or cruel enough for headlines, but just enough to piss you off.
The subtle glances at your car when he walks into the garage, the almost imperceptible smirk when you debrief a mistake, the way he jokingly comments about you around the engineers.
"If she bins it this weekend, I'm not taking responsibility."
"Try not to embarrass us out there, yeah?"
"Don't let the pressure eat you alive."
They laugh with him, because when Satoru Gojo says something condescending, they call it banter, but your skin burns with the knowledge that he means every word.
You're teammates at the end of the day, yet everyone acts like you're the extra piece in his puzzle.
You sit in strategy meetings, listening to plans built around his win potential. You watch new upgrades roll onto his chassis first and hear race simulations prioritize his clean air over your overtaking chances.
You've tried to tell yourself it's because of seniority. He's been with the team for years whereas you're in your freshman season, and most teams insist they don't have a number one driver, but Ferrari doesn't bother pretending.
He’s the main act, you’re the footnote, and he knows you hate him, matter of fact, he revels in it.
There's a certainty in the way he looks at you. A quiet confidence that he will always outrank you, always overshadow you, always win the battles you're both too proud to admit you're fighting.
However, buried beneath that there's the smallest flicker of something dangerous.
He doesn't underestimate you, he just wants to break you first.
And this season you haven't podiumed once although you want to more than anything, but the golden boy is dead set on making sure you don't, that’s the real story.
That's the tension threading through every qualifying session, every team meeting, every media conference, every accidental brush of shoulders in the garage.
Two drivers on one team with one throne, and only one of you is welcome to sit on it.
You don't want to coexist; you want to destroy him and he wants to watch you fall.
Yet, despite everything—the scrutiny, the favoritism, the suffocating hierarchy, you've managed to survive half a season in scarlet.
Thirteen races down, eleven to go, and the standings look exactly how Ferrari wants them to.
Gojo sits first in the World Drivers' Championship with four wins, six podiums, and all the media worship on earth.
Always a few places behind him, not because you lack speed, but because something always interferes.
A poorly timed pit call. A "hold position" order when you were faster. A late-race strategy shuffle that magically benefits him every time.
Or worse, the subtler infuriating way he'll compromise your laps in qualifying without ever doing anything blatant enough to punish.
Everyone sees the points gap, yet no one sees the reasons. They only see the narrative they want to believe.
"She doesn't have Gojo's composure."
"Maybe the Ferrari is too much car for her."
"She's a good midfield driver, but she's no Gojo."
Then there's the comments they don't bother hiding, the ones that sting more because they sound familiar.
"Maybe women just don't belong in Formula 1.”
"She got the seat because she's pretty, not because she's fast."
"Ferrari hired her for marketing, not racing."
"She's better off modeling instead of driving."
Online, the hate is worse.
Your name trends after every race weekend and for all the wrong reasons.
@F1Bro_99: bro she's like...mid. put her in F2 pls
@PitLanePatrol: imagine never placing and still having a job lol
@F1Pundit: unpopular opinion: women don't have the neck strength for 300km/h corners sorry not sorry
@SatorusWife: daddy gojo carrying the whole team AGAIN she should be grateful
And the inevitable, every time you out-qualify someone who isn't him.
@FerrariFanboy: must've been a fluke
@GridGirls4Life: nah the car did the work
Most of them forget you're a rookie and that he's a five year veteran. All of them forget that you've matched his raw pace more times than anyone wants to admit.
And now, with the Austrian Grand Prix approaching, a track you know you can conquer—the pressure is tightening like a noose around your neck.
Ferrari wants another win for the golden boy. You want the season to turn in your favor.
And Gojo? He wants to make sure you stay exactly where you are.
Not ahead or equal. Behind.
And the weekend does not wait for you.
Morning breaks over the Austrian paddock while Free Practice 1 looms, unavoidable.
By the time you step into the garage, the world has already moved to the next narrative, the next headline, the next comparison between you and him, and all you can do is walk straight into the fire.
The Ferrari garage hums with its usual morning electricity—air guns whining, tire blankets humming, engineers speaking in fast clipped Italian, screens flickering with telemetry even though the session hasn't started.
Mid-season pressure is a living thing. Expectations choke the air like exhaust and Gojo's championship lead hovers over the garage like a storm cloud only you can feel.
You've been here long enough to know exactly where you fit in the chaos.
Far left in the second car as the second driver and second priority.
Your race engineer, Luca, hands you a tablet with overnight data, "You will like this," He says, grinning, "Your long-run pace improved. Very strong."
You nod, tapping through the corners you nailed, the ones you need to tidy up and you're focused, until the atmosphere shifts, it always does when he enters.
Satoru Gojo walks into the garage like he's walking onto a red carpet—Ferrari suit unzipped to his waist, gloves tucked in his belt, hair annoyingly perfect for someone who's never touched a comb.
He smiles at one of the engineers and they laugh too hard. Someone pats his back like he cured cancer overnight, his race engineer hands him a coffee like it's a ritual offering.
The whole garage bends toward him without meaning to.
You don't look up, you refuse to, but he notices you anyway because he always does.
"Morning," He calls out loudly, stretching it like a taunt, "Didn't think you'd make it this early. Big day for you, isn't it?”
He's talking to you, obviously, but not directly. More like talking at you just to remind the room you're here.
"And why wouldn't I be early?" You ask, finally lifting your gaze from the tablet.
He smirks slowly, amused and condescending, "Ah, you know. Pressure. Expectations. Mistakes waiting to happen."
He tilts his head innocently, "I figured you'd want a full night's sleep before...you know," There's a tiny shrug, "Trying to keep up."
You don't flinch, "I'm not the one who missed apex three times in turn nine last race," You point evenly.
A few mechanics freeze. Someone coughs. Luca's eyes widen with a silent here we go.
Gojo stops mid-step and for a heartbeat, that perfect smile flickers.
Then he laughs, sharp and bright, "Oh? Keeping tabs on me now?" He walks closer, the space between you shrinking to something dangerous, "Careful. People might think you're obsessed."
Your jaw tightens and he sees it—the irritation and restraint, his grin widens in victory.
You look past him, addressing no one in particular, "If I was obsessed with mediocrity, I would've joined Haas."
A couple mechanics stifle laughs they shouldn't let escape and Gojo hears them, smile dropping half a millimeter.
Luca clears his throat nervously, "We should...go over strategy, sí?"
You don’t move, neither does he. Instead, he steps into your space, the scent of faint cologne and engine oil filling your olfactory senses.
This is something he does often and purposely so, to assert dominance and show exactly why the garage worships him.
"You know," He murmurs, voice lower, "You talk a big game for someone who's still proving she belongs."
You lift your chin, "And you talk a big game for someone terrified I'll take your place."
His breath catches, and you notice it—the insecurity he hides behind theatrics.
He covers it quickly with a smirk, "Try not to spin in turn five today. Wouldn't want to interrupt my long run."
"And you try not to rely on the team saving your ass again."
He steps away at last, but not before leaning in to whisper, "You'll never beat me."
You don't give him the satisfaction of reacting, "You're scared I will."
He turns his back on you, but you see the tension in his shoulders. The flicker of annoyance in the set of his jaw, the way he pulls on his gloves too sharply.
Your own crew surrounds you again, but the entire garage still feels like it's vibrating from the collision of you and him.
The rivalry isn't just starting.
Simmering, growing, sharpening its teeth, and practice hasn't even begun.
Luca eventually pulls you toward your car, trying to steer the tension out of your orbit.
Mechanics zip your suit while someone hands you your balaclava, telemetry screens flip from green to yellow as Free Practice 1 nears start.
You don't look at Gojo again. You refuse to give him more space in your head than he already occupies, but you feel him and the weight of his gaze, amusement buzzing beneath his calm, the unspoken challenge hanging in the air like static waiting for a spark.
And as soon as Luca nods, as soon as your crew waves you forward you climb into the cockpit, sinking into the molded seat that knows your shape better than anyone else in this building.
Whatever came before doesn't matter.
Because the moment your visor drops, shutting out the world—for one suspended heart beat, there's nothing. No garage noise or engineers shouting across the bay, none of Gojo’s antics. All that exists is the hollow, steady drum of your pulse.
Then the engine fires behind you, the sound violent and beautiful, a roar that floods your chest and wipes every lingering doubt from your mind.
Whatever the media thinks, whatever Ferrari thinks, whatever Gojo thinks—none of it exists once you enter that car.
"Track is clear, (Y/N)," Luca advises, voice steady in your ear, "You're green to push."
You ease out of the garage, tires humming across the pit lane, the car twitching beneath you with the restless energy of something alive and impatient.
The sun lights off the halo; wind skims across your helmet.
The first laps are routine—warming the tires, feeling for balance, testing how the car wants to move under you.
You learn the grip through your fingertips, the rear through your ribcage, and the airflow through the subtle resistance of the wheel.
You're finding the rhythm when Luca's tone tightens, "Car 17 approaching at high speed on a lap."
Car 17. Satoru Gojo. Of course.
A quick glance in the mirrors confirms it. Red helmet, red chassis, the silhouette of someone who believes the track belongs to him and he’s closing the gap fast.
You're on a cool-down lap, technically entitled to hold the racing line. Courtesy, however, says you should move aside.
You don't, at least not right away.
You wait long enough that he has to wonder if you're being difficult. Long enough to remind him he's not the only one who can bend etiquette, making your heart spike with a hint of satisfaction.
He flashes his lights at you impatiently and you smirk inside your helmet. Then you move aside, an attempt to be as inconvenient as possible to the point of irritation.
He flies past, the air shoving your front wing sideways and under the roar, you can practically hear him seething.
"Don't play games," Luca warns, though gently, "Not now."
"Wasn't playing," You lie, but your pulse tells the truth.
When you're pushing again on your next flyer, karma arrives just as you lift onto full throttle.
Gojo exits the pit lane, right as you reach turn twelve.
He sees you coming, there's no way he doesn't. The timing is too perfect, the trajectory too deliberate, and he stays exactly where he is.
You brake early, the tires protesting, the lap bleeding away in a smear of red deltas, "Is he serious?"
Luca hesitates, which means he's choosing his words, "Car 17 is...also on a prep lap."
You don't need to see his face to know Gojo is laughing inside his helmet.
Your ruined lap shows on the garage screens, P11 and dropping.
He glances at you in his mirrors—long enough to make sure you saw. A small, infuriating tilt of his head. A silent, try harder.
The session winds down, and he slices across the final corner like he owns the asphalt, throwing his car into the racing line the way men do when they've never been told no.
He finishes P3. You finish P11.
Commentators will say he looks strong.
They'll say you're struggling with consistency. They'll talk about pressure and mistakes and your future at Ferrari.
But the only person who knows the truth of what happened out there and the only one who will savor it, is Satoru Gojo.
And he will enjoy every second.
By the time Free Practice 1 ends, the tension hasn't left your blood.
You climb out of the car with adrenaline still buzzing in your fingertips, helmet tucked under your arm, jaw tight from the way Gojo ruined your lap and pretended it was nothing.
Mechanics avoid your eye, Luca gives you a sympathetic look that says everything that he can’t say aloud, and Gojo of course walks past your car without acknowledging you, humming like he didn't just derail your entire session for fun.
You don't say a word as you hand off your gloves and you don’t bother looking at him, you can’t.
Because the moment you do, the cameras will catch it, and they're already watching—waiting for a headline, a crack, a breadcrumb they can twist into narrative.
And when Ferrari ushers you toward the media center, your hair is still damp from the helmet, your mind not ready for words, and your patience hanging by a thread so thin it might snap from a breath.
The session may be over, but the fight isn't.
The lights of the press room glare off every surface—cameras, sponsor boards, the glossy table lined with nameplates, a sterile stage where expression is both magnified and dissected.
You lower yourself into the seat assigned to you, adjusting the microphone you don't want to speak into, and ignore the untouched bottle of water placed in front of you like a prop.
Gojo sits two chairs away and settles in with the ease of someone reclining into a beach lounger rather than taking on the media.
One leg stretches out, one arm drapes casually across the back of the chair, and the relaxed tilt of his body screams confidence.
He always pretends to be bored, though you know he isn’t. Him seeing you scramble is the most entertaining part of his day, and the second you sit, cameras flash.
Not for you, of course, but for him. Always for him.
You keep your expression smooth, carefully neutral, as if the lights can burn straight through your skin.
At the opposite table, a couple of Mercedes and McLaren drivers exchange quiet whispers, half-hidden smirks betraying their interest.
Everyone in this room knows about the rumored tension between the Ferrari teammates. Rumors sell, however truth sells even better.
The moderator clears his throat, "We'll begin with questions."
A hand lifts immediately, "This question is for Satoru."
You’re not surprised whatsoever because they always are.
"You finished P3 in FP1. How's the car feeling? Any concerns for qualifying?"
Gojo's grin is warm, easy, annoyingly photogenic, and stupidly attractive, "Car feels great. The team's doing fantastic work. Just getting into the rhythm."
More questions follow, all for him. One after another.
You sit quietly, chin lifted just enough to avoid looking like background decor. Until a journalist finally glances your way.
"(Y/N), tough session today. P11," His tone is dipped in condescension—the soft, patronizing kind that pretends to be supportive, "Do you think the pace difference between you and your teammate comes down to experience? Or perhaps the pressure of the spotlight?"
The subtext of his question is clear—maybe you're not cut out for this.
Before you can answer, Gojo exhales a dismissive laugh through his nose.
Your eyes flick sharply toward him. You steady your voice, "Well, FP1 is for testing setup changes. We weren't chasing times—"
The reporter cuts you off, "So you're saying the car isn't working for you?"
"No," You say evenly, holding your composure by the throat, "I'm saying it's early. People jump to conclusions."
Another hand rises, a woman with cold eyes and no patience for decorum.
"(Y/N), there were a few moments today where Car 17 appeared held up behind you in the first sector. Was that a mistake on your part? Or...intentional?"
A ripple of interest moves through the room. Gojo raises a brow, entertained.
Every camera shifts toward you, "I followed protocol," You respond coolly, "I moved when appropriate."
Gojo leans into his microphone, the smallest motion, "Mm," He hums lightly, "If you say so."
The whole room pivots toward him. You turn your head slightly, eyes sharp enough to slice carbon fiber, "What's that supposed to mean?"
He shrugs, all lazy innocence, "Nothing. Just saying the telemetry might disagree."
A murmur spreads through the reporters. You inhale slowly but it’s not because you're calm, rather the alternative would be far too honest.
"I lifted," You say into the mic, "Fully. Made room. If he still felt blocked, that's not on me."
Gojo smiles, the kind that hides teeth, "You lifted late."
"Oh?" He rests his cheek against his palm, feigning boredom, "Because from my onboards, it looked like you waited. Sort of...deliberately."
The implication slithers between you and your jaw clenches, "So is the story you want to tell that I sabotaged your lap?"
He spreads his hands in a lazy display of innocence, "Hey, hey. I didn't say the word sabotage."
The journalists come alive, an entire room leaning forward, "Satoru," One jumps in, "Are you suggesting (Y/N) compromised your run?"
Gojo's smile widens slowly, practiced and devastatingly smug, "Look, I know she's still adjusting. These cars are fast, the pressure is intense...mistakes happen."
No one misses the meaning. She folded under pressure. She's not equipped for this. She's not me.
Your hand curls around your water bottle until the plastic strains.
You remind yourself—millions are watching, sponsors are watching, Ferrari is watching.
You swallow your fury because swallowing is safer than spitting, but Gojo isn't finished.
He taps his mic softly, almost playful, "If anything, I admire her spirit. Fighting hard is good. Just—" His smirk deepens, "—maybe pick better moments to fight."
Something inside you flares hot and violent, but you temper it beautifully, "Funny coming from someone who blocked me into turn twelve," You say, voice honey-sweet and lethal.
A collective gaps shifts the air. Gojo's pale blues narrow a fraction, "Oh? I thought you said I was the one overreacting."
"Not overreacting," You reply smoothly, "Just pointing out that if you're going to imply things, be ready for the full picture."
The silence turns dangerous. A journalist lifts her hand cautiously, "Is there...tension between the two of you?"
Gojo answers before you can, "No tension," He says effortlessly. His gaze shifts to you slowly, "Just reality. I'm faster. That's all."
You don't blink, "That's not reality. That's your ego talking."
Something tightens along his jaw—so small the cameras miss it, however you don’t.
The moderator hurries in, voice flustered, "And that's all for today—thank you, drivers—"
Cameras explode into flashes as you stand. Your heart drums, pulse running too hot and too fast.
Gojo brushes past as he leaves the podium. He doesn't look at you, but his voice catches your ear alone.
"Try not to cry about P11."
You don't give him an inch, "I'll be ahead of you tomorrow."
He chuckles lowly, "I'd like to see you try."
His voice follows you into the night, echoing every time you close your eyes.
Come next morning, the exhaustion of barely sleeping has morphed into something sharper.
The moment you step back into the Ferrari garage, the atmosphere is different—tighter, colder, ready for war.
Today is qualifying and you're done giving him the upper hand.
Qualifying days always feel heavier, like the air itself knows what's at stake. Every sound blends into a restless pressure that sits beneath your ribs.
You stand beside your car while mechanics perform their final touches, tightening bolts with reverence and polishing the floor until the reflection almost blinds you.
Your gloves are already on, molding to your palms like second skin; everything inside you is certain.
You will not be P11 today.
Luca approaches with the tablet, his expression earnest and almost fatherly, "You can do this," He murmurs, "This track suits you. And your long-run pace earlier—truly, it was perfect."
You nod, jaw set, "Let's make it count."
He opens his mouth to say more, but the garage shifts before he can—a subtle tightening.
Gojo has arrived with his helmet in hand, suit zipped, posture loose in that infuriatingly unbothered way that suggests the world always bends for him.
He doesn't look your way, but the slight tug of amusement on his mouth tells you he's thinking about the press conference yesterday, about how easily he painted you as the problem, about P11.
Luca takes a small step between you as if he's learned the dangers of letting you occupy the same space.
The race director's voice reverberates through the speakers, "Drivers to cars."
You lower yourself into the cockpit and it closes around you like a vault. The noise sharpens; your breathing steadies.
You're aware of everything at once—the warmth of the engine behind you, the gentle vibration of steering wheel, the faint scent of fuel.
Then Gojo's engine fires beside yours, the sound rolls over you like a challenge.
You don't look because you don't need to. You know exactly what he's doing.
You get released onto the track, and the early laps slip into that familiar rhythm. In the background, sector times flash across the monitors.
You place yourself easily in the top five. He edges into the top two. Neither of you push yet; the real fight hasn't started.
Qualifying tightens as the minutes pass. Grip improves, wind shifts, each lap matters more than the last.
You hear faint commentary through the garage speakers; his name spoken with admiration, your own with measured skepticism—it barely registers.
The only thing that matters is the car beneath you and the lap you haven't yet unleashed.
By the time the final segment arrives, the tension has settled over Ferrari like fog. Mechanics hover behind their screens, engineers whisper in urgent Italian.
You sit in your car with the visor raised, watching the pit lane clock count down. Luca leans close so only you can hear, "You can take pole," He says, without a hint of doubt, "You just need a perfect exit from the final corner."
You give a small nod. Across the garage, Gojo's engineer taps his halo and says, loud enough for you to hear, "Let's get pole for real this time. None of that charity from these morning runs."
The word charity strikes like a slap. As if your presence on this team is a gift he bestows and beating you is nothing more than routine.
Heat gathers beneath your suit—anger, focus, whatever the hell you want to call it, fueling you more than it should.
The light at the end of the pit lane turns green. You're released first and he follows a breath behind.
Your outlap builds slowly, warming the tires and clearing the traffic. You can feel the track gripping under you, rubber laid down through the day stitching every corner tighter.
Luca's voice crackles through the radio, "All clear. You are good to push. Go."
And you do. You throw the car into turn one with precision, catching the apex perfectly. Turn two flows beneath you, fluid and clean. Turn three catches you in a rhythm that feels like instinct.
The car dances through the middle sector; your hands steady, your focus razor sharp. Luca's voice breaks mid-report, "Purple. (Y/N), you are purple in sector two."
For the first time this weekend you feel it—the car responding to you alone. Not to the team's doubt or Gojo's shadow. To you.
And then, a shape in your periphery.
You catch it only for a heartbeat, the flash of red, the red halo, the unmistakable outline of Car 17.
Gojo timed his exit perfectly, slipping onto the circuit just in time to tuck himself behind you. Far too close for coincidence.
Luca's voice spikes, "Car 17 behind—push, push, you have priority!"
He shouldn't interfere, but he's there anyway—breathing down your exhaust, his presence alone threatening to unravel the perfect lap you've built.
You grit your teeth and keep going. Turn fourteen is critical and unforgiving, he doesn't back off.
His slipstream tugs at the rear of your car, dragging you forward just enough to unsettle the balance. You correct the slide with ease, heart punching against your ribs.
"Keep going!" Luca shouts, "Go, go—Go!"
You hit the final corner full throttle and across the line, you’re P1.
The timing tower flashes your number at the top and your breath stutters in your chest. For a moment, just one, you let yourself feel it.
Then the board updates. Car 17. P1. -0.102.
Gojo—a tenth of a second faster. A tenth stolen off the back of your lap.
By the time you turn into the pit lane, he's already out of his car peeling off his gloves, stretching lazily, grin tugging at his mouth.
A smirk that says I let you dream, then I decided to wake you up.
Ferrari crowds around him with cheers and back slaps and congratulations, as if only one car exists in this garage.
No one approaches you. Not until Luca does, quiet and apologetic, "That was incredible," He praises softly, "You were faster in the middle sector. Without...outside influence, that was your pole."
Outside influence. A polite term for theft.
You remove your helmet slowly, hair damp with sweat, breaths still uneven from the lap that should've been yours.
Across the garage, Gojo lifts three fingers in a lazy salute—teasing, mocking. A wordless better luck next time.
Your blood turns to fire. You look right at him, chin high, eyes cold, every inch of you refusing to fold.
You mouth the words, "Fuck you."
His smirk curves wider, devilish and victorious once again. He mouths back, "Make me."
The words lodge under your skin, impossible to shake, burning all the way down.
By the time you storm out of the garage and into the hospitality building, that anger is still simmering; sharp enough to keep you awake, hot enough to follow you down every hallway.
And when you finally walk inside, the screens are already replaying qualifying on a loop.
The slow-motion clip of him tucked behind you during qualifying three, your rear twitching under the slipstream, the commentators quick to assign to blame.
"(Y/N) nearly cost him the lap—look how unstable her exit is!"
"She's been struggling all weekend."
"Gojo establishing himself as Ferrari's unquestionable lead driver."
"The pressure's getting to her."
You sip water because it's the only thing you can do that won't get you fined.
A few tables away, journalists are already composing their articles. You can see the headlines reflected in their screens with big fonts, harsh words, and zero forgiveness.
(L/N) Cracks Under Pressure Again
Gojo Outshines Ferrari's Controversial Rookie Driver
(Y/N) Impedes Teammate in Critical Lap—Tension Rising?
Ferrari Favorite vs. Ferrari Experiment
The word lands like a weight on your ribs like you're temporary, conditional, replaceable.
As if your seat is something they're trying out before they decide whether to throw you away.
You feel eyes on you—the prickling awareness of cameras turning, of whispered commentary, of people forming opinions faster than you can breathe.
You hold your posture steady, back straight, face cool, but the room feels like it's leaning in, waiting for you to break.
You're scanning for somewhere—anywhere quiet, when you see him. Satoru Gojo.
Radiant under the lights, surrounded by PR personnel and engineers, answering questions like he's being interviewed for sainthood.
He laughs, signs something for a fan, and leans closer to the mic in that charming way that turns every moment into a highlight reel.
He catches you looking. He always does.
He lifts his eyebrows, barely a movement, but one loaded with meaning. A silent question, jealous?
You drop your gaze, he doesn't drop his.
You try to slip away, out the side door, away from the cameras, down the quieter hallway behind the hospitality pavilion.
You just need a moment, a breath, something that belongs to you and not the public.
But he catches you before you make it ten steps outside, "Leaving without saying hello?"
His voice drifts from behind you, smooth and maddeningly amused. You stop, spine stiffening, not surprised he followed.
You turn slowly. He's only a few feet away, hands shoved loosely in his pockets, still in his suit, still looking like nothing touches him, not even you.
You don't bother with formalities, "What do you want?"
He tilts his head slightly, "Just checking in. You seemed a little...tense in there."
You stare at him, incredulous, "That's rich."
He steps closer, tightening the space between you, "You looked like you took the headlines personally," He says lightly, as if the words aren't knives, "You shouldn't. Media loves drama."
He smiles—slow, subtle, unapologetic, "Did I?"
"You implied I sabotaged your lap."
"I didn't use that word."
A breeze passes between you, warm and heavy with the smell of hot asphalt and engine residue. Gojo watches you with that aggravatingly relaxed posture, like he's enjoying this.
Like all of this—your anger, the headlines, the chaos, is fun for him.
"You drove well," He says after a moment, almost thoughtfully, "Better than I expected."
You grit your teeth, "I don't need your approval."
"No," He agrees, "But you want to beat me."
You say nothing. He takes another step, closing the remaining gap.
Not touching—never touching, but close enough that you feel the heat of him.
His eyes drop to your mouth for the briefest second before lifting again, "Pole was mine either way," He says quietly, "You know that."
The frustration burns low in your gut, "You used my lap.”
He shrugs one shoulder, "Slipstream is a strategy.”
"You timed it on purpose."
"You're fast enough to make it worth it."
It's meant as a compliment, yet it sounds like an insult.
You breathe out slowly, trying to smother the spark in your chest, "Move."
He doesn't. He stays right where he is, blocking the narrow walkway, looking down at you with that annoying mix of confidence and curiosity.
"You were good today," He notes softly, almost like he's testing the words on his tongue, "Really good."
There's a short pause before he adds, "But not good enough."
Your breath stutters; rage, pride, humiliation, and something else tangled in it.
His smile is a slash of white in the dim hallway, "Tomorrow..." He murmurs, "...you'll still be behind me."
The pulse in your neck flips, "Keep dreaming."
"I don't need to dream," He says, "I just need to show up."
You step around him, shoulder nearly brushing his.
He doesn't stop you this time, but as you pass, he leans in, breath ghosting your ear, "Try to keep up."
You don't break stride and you don’t bother looking back, but your hands are shaking, very slightly, with more than just anger.
And you tell yourself, tomorrow can't come fast enough.
You hardly sleep that night. Every time you try, you see Gojo's smirk, you hear the commentators criticism.
You wake with your jaw clenched and pulse already pounding.
Ferrari's paddock is quieter in the early hours. The air holds a strange suspended calm, like the moment before the lights go out on the grid.
Tire blankets hum, engineers whisper. Beyond the garage walls, fans are gathering, but the roar hasn't reached here yet.
You're in your driver room, suit peeled to your waist, going over mental notes. Corner speeds, tire temps, fuel deltas, anything to keep your thoughts from circling the wrong direction.
A soft knock interrupts, two gentle taps.
Luca enters before you answer, closing the door behind him. He looks tired—tired in a way men look when they've been fighting battles no one else sees.
He gives you a small nod, "Morning, ragazza."
You manage one back and he motions for you to sit, but you already are—so you straighten, bracing.
Luca takes the chair across from you and exhales the kind of breath someone only releases when they hate what they're about to say.
"(Y/N)..." He starts, voice low, "...we need to talk about today."
A coil of dread tightens in your stomach, "What about it?"
He hesitates which is rare for him. He's usually direct and clean in his phrasing, but he's searching for words like each one might cut him on the way out.
"There may be team orders."
You don't react at first. You just stare at him, waiting for the part that hurts. He continues, way too gently, "They're going to prioritize Satoru."
Your breath leaves in a slow, controlled exhale, "I figured."
"I know you did," Luca says quietly, "But I wanted to tell you before the race director mentions anything over the radio. I didn't want you blindsided."
Your shoulders tense, "What exactly is the order?"
"If you and Gojo are close on track," He says softly, "You're expected to hold position."
Your jaw tightens. This isn't the first time you've been ordered to do so, but it doesn't piss you off any less.
"And if he's struggling?"
"And if I get a real chance to pass him?"
His voice drops, filled with a sadness you don't want to see, "They won't want that."
Your heartbeat becomes a sharp, steady throb behind your ribs, "So they want me to protect him. Again."
"No," Luca tries—then stops. He can't lie, not to you, "They want you to avoid jeopardizing him."
You let out a cold, humorless laugh, "Same thing."
He doesn't deny it. You stare at your hands—hands that hold a steering wheel at 300 km/h like it's part of you, now curling into fists.
Luca's face softens with something like ache, "You can," He whispers, "You absolutely can."
"Then why won't they let me?"
He swallows hard, "Because Gojo brings more...value."
Not skill or speed. Value.
The fanbase, sponsors, legacy, brand power.
Your stomach twists, "And if I don't listen?"
Fear flashes across Luca's face, real and immediate, "Don't even consider it. You'll risk your seat. Your future. They'll make you the villain. You know that."
You breathe in deeply, fighting the crack in your chest, "Of course they will."
Luca rises slowly. He looks older today, in the way disappointment ages people.
He reaches the door, pauses, one hand on the handle, and looks back, "Between you and me? You were robbed yesterday."
The words hit harder than any insult ever could.
He doesn't wait for your reaction. He slips out quietly, leaving you alone with the hum of the paddock growing by the minute.
You sit for a long moment, staring at the floor, Ferrari red pressing heavy on your shoulders.
Today isn't just a race, it's a war, and deep in your bones, you know something is coming.
Something that won't be clean, fair, or easily forgotten.
Your blood runs hotter than the engines warming in the garages outside.
If Ferrari wants you quiet, obedient, and predictable this time—they've chosen the wrong driver.
You rise from the chair, grab your balaclava and gloves, and push out into the morning paddock.
The world is already shifting into race day routine. The air tastes like heat, fuel, and adrenaline and you move through it with purpose.
By the time you step into the Ferrari garage, everything is alive. The hum of tensions engulfs the team like smoke.
Luca spots you, worry flickering across his face before he schools it into something steadier, almost like faith.
You nod once. A silent agreement passes between you. Race time.
Whatever Ferrari expects, whatever Gojo thinks he has secured, whatever narrative the world is waiting to write—you have other plans.
You approach your car and slide into the cockpit as if stepping into your real skin. The mechanics lower the halo, darkness tightening around your peripherals.
Your breathing evens as your heartbeat aligns with the slow, rising rumble of the engine behind you.
This is where everything quiets, sharpens, and becomes yours again.
And as the garage door rolls open to the pit lane and sunlight floods across your visor—the Austrian Grand Prix begins.
Gojo stands ahead of you on pole, the sun catching the red of his suit and turning him almost mythic, Ferrari's chosen son.
His visor is down as well, hiding whatever expression he's wearing, but you don't need to see it.
You can feel it; that smug, unshakable certainty. That belief—expectation, that you will fold.
Luca approaches, standing beside your front left tire, "Deep breaths," He says quietly, trying to reach you through the storm, "You know this track. You know this car. And you know him."
He shakes his head, "No team orders until they give them," There's a grim pause, "But they will."
You swallow the bitterness, "I won't roll over."
"Just be smart," But your eyes are already locked ahead.
On Gojo. On the red car with the number 17. On the man Ferrari protects like a crown jewel.
Your teammate. Your rival.
Engines fire across the grid, the roar rolling through your chest like thunder.
Five red lights blink to life above the track.
Your grip tightens on the steering wheel. Four lights. Three. Two. One.
And you launch out. A perfect start.
Your tires bite immediately, your acceleration perfectly straight. The McLaren behind you spins its wheels in dirty air. Gojo's launch is quick, but yours is better.
You surge toward turn one side-by-side. For one breathless moment, the world hold its balance—two Ferraris lunging for the same corner, two drivers unwilling to lift.
"(Y/N), careful—" Luca's voice snaps into your ear.
You don't lift, neither does Gojo. You take the inside, he stays on the racing line.
You brake later and the car grips. You slide just ahead, tires screaming, but stable.
The crowd erupts. The commentators shout your name like they can't quite believe it.
"(Y/N) (L/N) takes the lead into turn one!"
"A brave move against her teammate!"
"She's not here to play support!"
Gojo's voice crackles through your proximity mic—a low, frustrated growl you're not supposed to hear, but do anyway.
You don't answer, your driving does it for you.
For the next nine laps, you hold him off—clean, precise, flawless.
Every sector, you're faster.
Every corner, you're sharper.
Every straight, you deny him the slipstream he weaponized yesterday.
Lap 7—he locks up in turn four. His first mistake.
Luca's voice flares with excitement, "You're pulling away! Keep this pace!"
You allow yourself one breath of triumph, one second of knowing you're out driving Ferrari's golden boy.
And then the radio clicks. A different voice. Authority disguised as neutrality.
"(Y/N), hold position. Repeat—hold position. Do not fight Satoru."
Your stomach drops. It's happening.
Luca rushes in, frantic beneath the professionalism, "That's from above. Stay calm."
You grit your teeth, "I'm faster."
There's a beat of silence, "Instructions stand," The voice commands, "Let him through."
"He can pass me," You snap, "If he's fast enough."
Behind you, you see the flash of red in your mirrors, hungry and aggressive.
You defend perfectly—legal, tight, immovable.
Lap 11. Lap 12. Lap 15. He can't get past you.
And you know he hates it.
You feel the fury radiating off him, the team panicking in your ear, the commentators losing their minds.
"(Y/N) (L/N) is defending like her life depends on it!—"
"Ferrari will not be thrilled with this—"
"She's faster, she knows it, he knows it. This is incredible—"
But faster comes with a price.
By Lap 17, your tires are blistering, tiny fractures that turn grip into glass.
"(Y/N), careful—rear temps are high. Switch to mode 6—" Luca pleads.
Mode 6 means back off. Mode 6 means give Gojo the chance to pass. Mode 6 means obey.
Turn eight bites. Just a twitch at first, a warning.
But then you brake a fraction too late into turn eleven—fighting to stay ahead, fighting the team, fighting Gojo, fighting everyone, fighting everything.
You almost catch it, almost, but almost isn't enough at 250 km/h.
The car spins, once, twice, the world blurring into red, white, and static.
Your front wing hits the barrier with a deadly crunch.
There is only silence, then, Luca's voice, "(Y/N)! (Y/N)! Are you okay? Answer!"
"I'm...fine," You force out, voice wrecked.
Marshals wave yellow flags. A Virtual Safety Car is deployed.
Gojo speeds past your wreck on the restart, taking back the race like it was always meant for him.
The commentators praise his composure while the fans cheer.
You sit in the recovery van with your helmet still on, gloved hands shaking, and heart in your throat.
You don't cry or break, but something inside you fractures.
Not from the crash—from everything that led you there.
Ferrari will blame you. The media will blame you. Gojo will enjoy every second.
The van slows as it pulls around the back of the paddock. The world outside is muffled and distant, until the broadcast feed comes crackling through the speakers mounted above the driver.
You hear it before you see it.
"And Satoru Gojo wins the Austrian Grand Prix!"
Your stomach drops. The crowd erupts, roaring, chanting his name like a hymn. The commentators gush over him, stitching the narrative before you even step foot outside the van.
"He managed the race beautifully."
"He proves again why he's Ferrari's number one."
Your fingers curl slowly, the gloves creaking.
By the time the van door opens, Gojo is already on the podium platform. The champagne bottle bursts in his hands, spraying into the sunlight, foam catching the light like white fire.
He's laughing; head tipped back, suit soaked, grin wide and electric. Like the crash was inevitable, like the universe was always going to hand him with a win you knew he didn't earn alone.
You step down from the van. The paddock looks different from this height—lower, smaller, like you're seeing it from the bottom of a cliff he just climbed. Screens mounted along the walkway replay his celebration in slow motion.
A team coordinator rushes past with a tablet showing the final standings. A mechanic mutters under his breath without noticing you're near.
"God, thank fuck she didn't take him out with that spin."
You freeze. Another voice—the PR intern with the too-loud opinions, laughs, "She's finished. They'll crucify her for this."
Your throat tightens, a slow, suffocating vice.
You force your legs to move because if you stand here any longer, you'll drown in the humiliation.
You push through the paddock doors into the Ferrari garage and the second you step inside, everyone goes quiet.
Not because they care, but because they don't know what version of you is walking in.
Broken? Angry? Defeated? Explosive?
You keep your head forward and that’s when you see him.
Satoru Gojo, still half-suited, white hair damp from champagne, leaning against the far wall like he owns the place.
He looks relaxed, radiant, victorious.
His eyes flick up the moment he senses you, the smirk instant. Slow, cruel, and immensely satisfied.
Like he's been waiting for you and this—your crash, his win, is an inside joke only he finds funny.
He doesn't say anything, he doesn't have to.
The room is thick and silent, every mechanic pretending to work, every engineer nervous to look directly at either of you.
Your pulse spikes, your vision narrows, and every breath feels heavy.
Because this is not over, and with the way Gojo pushes off the wall, stepping toward you slowly, like a predator choosing the exact moment to strike, makes it clear.
He knows it too. The collision you avoided on the track? It's about to happen here.
Behind closed garage doors, where no cameras can save you.
He stops in front of you, so close that the heat of him presses against your suit.
It leaves him like a lit match dropped between you.
You don't move and he smirks wider, "Unless you want an audience."
Every mechanic pretends not to hear. You scoff and roll your eyes, then you walk. Not because he asked, but because you're done letting him control the narrative.
He leads you down the narrow hallway behind the garage—past racks of tires, past tool crates, past the hum of generators, until he reaches a small, unmarked door.
He opens it, you step inside and he shuts the door.
The air tightens as he turns towards you, "You took your time coming back."
Your hands curl into fists, already deciding you can't entertain him a second longer, "Get out of my way."
He doesn't move. In fact, he pushes off the wall and takes a deliberate step closer, "Rough race?" He asks with a faux innocence dripping in mockery, "You spun pretty hard. Nearly thought you were injured."
He tilts his head, "Nah. I think we should talk. After all..." He glances around the cramped room, "Everyone else is pretending you don't exist. Might as well get used to the only person who won't."
Your chest tightens painfully, "Gojo, not now."
He studies you; eyes flicking over your suit, the scuffs from the crash, the way your hands are still trembling.
"You know," He says, almost conversational, "I expected you to ignore team orders, but I didn't think you'd crash trying to prove a point."
"I didn't crash because of you."
His eyebrows rise, "No? Strange. Because from where I was sitting, it looked like you were so desperate to beat me, you forgot how to drive."
Your breath punches out of you like a blade. You step forward, so close your chest brushes his, "Fuck you."
He smiles, slowly, infuriatingly, "There she is. The real you. Been waiting for that."
You shove him hard and he catches himself on the wall, laughing, "Oh, I hit a nerve."
"You humiliated me," You snap, "On the track. In front of the media. You knew what the headlines would say."
"You made it easy," He fires back, "You had P1. You had the race. And you threw it away because you couldn't handle that I was behind you."
"Don't flatter yourself."
His eyes sharpen, "What do you want me to say? That you're good? You are. But you're messy—reckless, emotional. And that's why Ferrari will never choose you over me."
The words slice through you, deeper than you expect, "And you love that, don't you?" You breathe out, "You love that no matter how well I drive, they'll always keep me beneath you."
He steps forward. Now he's close—too close. Your back touches the wall. His chest nearly touches yours.
"I love winning," He says quietly, "And if you get burned trying to chase me...that's on you."
Your breath catches out of pure rage, "You think you're untouchable."
He leans in, voice low and mocking, "I am."
"No, Gojo," Your eyes burn into his, "You're just scared someone might actually challenge you."
His breath hitches—barely, but you feel it, "You think you challenge me?"
Your faces are inches apart, breaths fusing. The silence turns heavy, charged, explosive.
His jaw flexes, "You crashed. You lost. I won."
"And you're still here," You shoot back, "In my face. Talking. Pushing. Why, Gojo? Why does it matter this much to you if I'm nothing?"
Something dangerous shifts in his expression, "Because you don't know how to stay down."
"Because you don't know how to stay ahead."
His hand slams against the wall beside your head, the sound echoing through the small room. You inhale sharply as his body presses closer, warmth radiating through your half-unzipped suit.
"You disobeyed team orders. Just to beat me," His eyes drops to your lips, "You want to win that badly?"
The challenge hangs between you—it's not about racing anymore.
It's about power, control, and desire you never knew existed.
Your heart fractures into adrenaline, "You first."
His breath trembles, just slightly, like he's collapsing into something he can't stop.
And then, he's kissing you—hard, violent, desperate.
As if the fight never ended, it just changed shape.
Your back hits the wall, your hands fist his suit; his mouth crashes onto yours with the kind of fury that tastes like champagne, sweat, and pure arrogance.
He groans against your lips, a deep, hungry sound that betrays every ounce of restraint he pretends to have.
He breaks the kiss just enough to murmur against your mouth, "This is why you crashed."
You grab the front of his suit and pull him back in, and this time, you kiss him like he's the only thing you want to destroy.
He bites your bottom lip, and you bite back hard enough to taste metal; he gasps, a broken sound that only makes your blood run hotter.
You shove him, he stumbles back, and you follow, pinning him against the opposite wall with a grunt.
Your hands tear at the zipper of his suit, yanking it down as he does the same to yours. The frigid air hits your skin and it does nothing to cool the fire.
"You want to fight?" He breathes, hands gripping your waist, bruising.
"Always," You snarl, and your hands find the waistband of his fireproofs, pulling him closer.
"Good," He growls, and he spins you both, slamming you back against a shelf of spare parts. A wrench clatters to the floor, the noise echoing your ragged breaths.
He grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand, the strength in his grip making your pulse race.
His other hand shoves your suit down your hips, exposing you to the cramped, dim light of the storage room.
"Look at you," His voice is low, rough with a hunger that mirrors yours, "All that fire, and you're still the one who came apart first."
You thrash against his hold, a useless, angry motion that only makes him tighten his grip, "Go to hell."
"I'm already there," His mouth brushes your jaw, his blue eyes dark, pupils blown wide.
Your leg hooks around his waist, pulling him impossibly closer. The friction is a shock, a jolt, a promise. He sucks in a sharp breath, and for a second, his control wavers.
His free hand fumbles with his own suit, his fireproofs—the frantic, clumsy movements of a man who's waited too long.
"Tell me you want this," He demands, his breath hot against your neck, his teeth scraping your skin.
"I want to watch you lose," You gasp, arching against him as he finally frees himself.
His laugh is harsh, breathless, "Wrong answer."
He lines his cock up with your entrance, and the tip of him presses against you. There's no preparation, no warning, just the blunt, unyielding pressure of a man about to take what he wants.
"Last chance to say no," He whispers, a final, cruel taunt.
You answer by digging your nails into the back of the hand holding your wrists, a silent, defiant dare.
He thrusts into you in one brutal, punishing stroke.
A strangled cry tears from your throat, it’s pleasure and pain. A sharp, exquisite agony that feels like a win.
"Fuck," He groans, his forehead dropping to your shoulder, body still for a moment as he adjusts.
"That all you got?" You tease, your voice a strained whisper.
He lifts his head, his eyes flashing wickedly, "I'm just getting started."
He begins to move; a hard, unforgiving rhythm that has the shelf digging into your back, the tools rattling with every thrust. His grip on your wrists tightens, an ache that grounds you in the moment.
Every thrust is a challenge, every gasp a surrender.
"Say it," He pants, his hips snapping against yours, "Say you hate me."
"I hate you," You moan, the words torn from you by a deep thrust that sends a thrill of unwanted pleasure through your body.
"Louder," He commands, releasing your wrists to grab your hips, pulling you into him with bruising force.
"I—Hate...You," You gasp, hands flying to his shoulders. Your fingernails dig into the flesh of his back, and he hisses in a mixture of pain and pleasure.
"Is that the best you can do?" He goads, his lips finding the sensitive skin behind your ear.
You answer by sinking your teeth into the juncture of his neck and shoulder, a possessive bite that draws a ragged groan from him. You taste salt, sweat and the lingering sweetness of champagne.
He retaliates by slamming into you harder, faster, a relentless assault that steals the air from your lungs.
The room spins, a blur of gray walls and red Ferrari equipment. The sounds of your struggle are obscene—a symphony of grunts, gasps, and the rhythmic slap of skin on skin.
"Still think you can beat me?" He growls, his voice a low rumble against your ear.
"I'm already beating you," You retort, your hands tangling in his sweat-damp hair, pulling his head back to expose the long, pale line of his throat.
He doesn't give you the satisfaction of a response, instead choosing to silence you with another kiss, all teeth and tongue and desperate need.
You meet him with equal ferocity, your anger and desire a tangled knot in your stomach, tightening with every thrust.
This isn't about your pleasure, it's about his and leaving a mark he'll feel long after this is over. You can feel the tension coiling in him, the desperation in his movements as he chases his release.
His rhythm becomes erratic, his breaths coming in ragged, shallow gasps—he's close. The thought sends a surge of power through you.
"You're pathetic," You whisper, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear, "So desperate for it."
He lets out a strangled laugh, a broken, breathless sound, "Look who's talking."
And then, a sound from outside the room; the click of a lock disengaging, the creak of a door opening down the hallway.
Panic flares in your chest, "Gojo—"
"Stay quiet," He grits out, his pace faltering for a fraction of a second before resuming with renewed urgency.
Then you hear the footsteps, growing much closer.
You bite down on your lip, trying to stifle the moan threatening to escape as he drives into you one last time. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his body shuddering as he finds his release, a hot pulsing flood that fills you with the undeniable evidence of his victory.
The footsteps stop right outside the door. A shadow falls under the crack. You hold your breath, your body a taut wire of tension and unfulfilled need.
Gojo's eyes fly open, wide with a mixture of alarm and something that looks suspiciously like triumph, and he doesn't pull out. Instead, he stays inside you, a silent, possessive claim as the person on the other side tries the handle again.
"Locked," A muffled voice says, followed by a frustrated sigh, "Must be jammed again. I'll get maintenance."
The footsteps retreat, fading into the distance.
The room is silent again, except for the sound of your ragged breaths and the frantic beating of your own heart.
Gojo lifts his head, a slow, smug grin spreading across his face. "Well. That was—"
You shove him off before he can finish.
The sudden loss of his body heat is jarring—wrong in a way you refuse to name and the sticky wetness between your thighs only makes the humiliation sharper.
You tuck yourself back into your suit, movements hurried, trying to erase him from your skin, "This never happened."
He doesn't even bother fixing his hair, watching you with that ruinous, satisfied expression, lips bitten raw, pale throat marked where your teeth sunk into him.
"Pretty sure it did," He murmurs.
You glare at him, fury coiling tight under your ribs as you reach for the door.
He speaks before your fingers touch the handle, "You think I'm going to chase you about this?"
You stop and don’t turn, entirely frozen in your tracks.
You feel him step forward, close enough that the air tightens and your pulse trips.
His voice drops, "I don't want you."
The words aren’t cruel, they aren’t kind either, but they’re just true. Even then, your jaw clenches out of pure rage.
"Good," You whisper, "I don't want you either."
He notices the tremble in your hands as you speak, "Then why are you shaking?"
You hate that he's right.
You hate him and you hate this.
"Because you hate me," He echoes, brushing past you, shoulder grazing yours, "Funny—didn't feel like you hated me when you were taking every inch of my c—"
"I already did," A dark smile tugs at his mouth, "What—want more?"
Your hand snaps up to hit him, he catches your wrist and leans in, voice dropping, "You should've just let me through, (Y/N)."
"And you should've stayed out of my way."
He looks at you and something unguarded flickers behind his eyes. Then he lets your wrist go and without another word, walks out.
The door shuts and your legs almost buckle.
This cannot happen again, but it will.
Because the season isn't over.
And whatever is burning between you and the golden boy?
It's only getting hotter.
