Beautiful Mess.

I wasn't sure why i agreed to come back here.

Maybe because of the weather—clear skies and a breeze that didn't feel like it was punishing me.

Maybe it was the way he asked, casually but with something heavy in his eyes or maybe… maybe i just missed the sound of engines that once made me feel alive.

The Grand Circuit was quieter than usual.

No crowd, no blaring music, no announcements.

Just that familiar smell of burnt rubber and asphalt warming under the afternoon sun.

I stood by the edge of the track, arms crossed, my hoodie sleeves covering the trembling in my hands.

It had only been a few weeks since i quit racing, but standing here again felt like facing a ghost version of myself.

Then heard his voice.

"You came."

I turned, and there he was—Lorenzo.

Wearing a plain black shirt, sleeves rolled up, hair messily falling over his forehead. He was smiling, the kind that tugged one side of his lips higher than the other.

The kind that always got me in trouble.

"I didn't say i'd race," I said, raising an eyebrow.

"You didn't say you wouldn't," he shot back, walking up beside me.

I looked at the track again. "You said this wasn't a trap."

"It's not," he grinned, then leaned in, whispering like we were kids hiding secrets. "It's just a little... spontaneous therapy."

"Therapy?" I scoffed.

"Yeah," he nodded. "You're miserable without racing. I can see it in your eyes."

I narrowed mine. "You don't know anything about my eyes."

"I've spent months memorizing them."

I blinked.

That caught me off guard.

I rolled my eyes to recover. "That's creepy."

He laughed. "Maybe. But still true."

Silence stretched between us for a second.

He reached into his back pocket and tossed me a key.

"Let's race. One round."

I stared at the key. I hadn't touched a car in weeks.

My heart pounded.

"I'm not racing anymore."

"I know. Just one," he said. "For me?"

Damn him.

I clenched the key and walked toward the garage.

The engine purred beneath my palms like a memory i couldn't forget.

As i pulled up beside him at the starting line, he gave me this smug look from his car, like he already knew i was going to lose.

"Don't cry when i leave you in the dust," he teased through the window.

"You wish," I muttered.

The lights counted down—red… red… green.

I floored the pedal.

The rush hit me like a wave.

Tires screeched, wind blurred past, my hands moved on instinct.

For a moment, I forgot everything.

The heartbreak. The quitting. The noise.

It was just me and the track.

But he was fast.

Too fast.

He took the inner corners like he owned them, and by the time we reached the last turn, I knew i was behind by a second too long.

He crossed the line first.

"Ugh!" I slammed the steering wheel, frustrated beyond reason.

When i parked, he was already waiting outside his car, leaning against the hood like he hadn't just crushed my ego.

"Wasn't even close," he said, pretending to yawn.

"I hate you."

"You love me."

I glared at him. "Do you always have to win?"

"No," he said, pushing off the hood and walking toward me. "Only when it means i get this reaction."

I opened my mouth to snap back, but he was suddenly right there—in front of me.

And then...

His arms were around me.

Without asking.

Just warm and firm and familiar.

I froze.

He didn't say anything.

He just held me. Tighter than necessary.

His nose brushed the top of my head, and I swear i felt his heartbeat thudding against mine.

"You're back," he whispered.

I didn't want to answer.

Because i wasn't sure if i was.

But i didn't pull away either.

Then he tilted my face up with two fingers, looked at me like i was something fragile and precious, and kissed me.

Soft. Slow.

Like he was scared to push too far.

Like he was trying to say something he couldn't put into words.

My knees almost gave in.

"Again," I said ten minutes later, breathless and half-laughing.

"What?" he smirked. "You want to lose twice in one day?"

"This time, I'm winning."

He raised his hands in surrender. "Alright. Let's see what you've got, superstar."

We lined up again.

Same cars. Same track.

Only this time... I noticed it.

The way he was holding back.

He didn't take the inside on the second curve.

He lifted off the gas earlier than he should've.

He was letting me win.

But i pretended not to notice.

When i crossed the finish line first, I raised both fists like a champion and screamed, "HA!"

He clapped from his car with the most dramatic, exaggerated enthusiasm ever.

"Wow. Queen behavior," he said, laughing.

"Bow down," I said smugly, hopping out.

He walked over, shaking his head. "You're so full of yourself when you win."

"And you're unbearable when you lose."

"I didn't lose," he said.

"Oh really?"

"I let you win."

I smacked his chest. "Don't ruin my moment."

He grabbed my hand before i could pull away and kissed my knuckles.

"Never," he said softly.

We sat on the bleachers as the sun started dipping, painting the sky in shades of fire and lavender.

He opened a bag of chips and handed it to me like we were in high school again.

"How did we end up here?" I asked, crunching a chip between my teeth.

"You mean this exact moment?" he asked.

"No, like… everything. Us. You and me. The track. The feelings."

He shrugged. "We were never meant to be boring."

I turned to look at him.

He had this far-off look in his eyes, like he was seeing something i couldn't.

"Did you ever feel like you were just someone's second option?" I asked quietly.

"All the time," he replied without missing a beat.

I swallowed. "It sucks."

"Yeah. But today…" He nudged my shoulder with his. "You're not second anything."

I looked away quickly, suddenly blinking back something warm in my eyes.

"I'm serious, Anastasia."

"Don't call me that."

"Why?"

"Because you only call me that when you're trying to break my heart."

He was silent.

Then, "I don't want to break your heart."

"Then don't," I whispered.

Silence again.

But not empty this time.

Full.

Heavy with everything we weren't saying.

-

It was almost 9 PM when he finally drove me home.

The roads were quiet.

Streetlights casting gold patterns on the dashboard.

He didn't turn on the radio.

I think we both liked the silence more.

At one point, I rested my head against the window, watching the city blur by, and he reached over to squeeze my hand.

Not in a romantic, grand gesture kind of way.

Just... a small, human one.

"I liked today," I said softly.

"Me too."

We didn't need more than that.

He parked in front of my house, engine humming low.

I reached for the door handle, but paused.

"Lorenzo?"

"Yeah?"

I looked at him.

"I know you let me win."

He grinned, dimples appearing. "Shocking."

"But thank you," I added.

His smile faded into something gentler. "You needed it."

He leaned over and pressed a quick kiss to my cheek.

"Goodnight, Atasha."

"Goodnight."

I stepped out of the car and didn't look back until i was halfway up the stairs.

He was still there—watching, waiting, like he always did.

I waved once.

He waved back.

Then drove off.

That night, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.

My hair smelled faintly of gasoline and Lorenzo's cologne.

And for the first time in my life… I didn't feel like someone's shadow.

Not my brother's.

Not a leftover.

Not a second choice.

I felt seen.

I felt chosen.

And the craziest part?

I didn't need the trophy.

I just needed today.