Beautiful Mess.

The sun hadn't even risen fully when i parked my car outside the track.

I sat there for a moment, both hands gripping the steering wheel, my knuckles pale from pressure. I was early intentionally early.

I didn't want to hear Lorenzo complain about me being late, or lazy, or unprofessional.

I wasn't giving him that satisfaction today.

I didn't even know why i was still showing up to this bullshit training.

Maybe because i hated the idea of quitting.

Or maybe because walking away would feel like he'd won. Or maybe because of pride.

And maybe—just maybe—I wanted to prove something. To him. To myself. To whoever was watching.

My head still pounded from yesterday conversation.

I was dehydrated, sleep-deprived, and in no mood for anyone's bullshit. Especially not his.

I walked toward the pit area, greeting the early staff with a brief nod.

Most of them looked up from their workstations just long enough to acknowledge me before going back to checking tires, logging data, and prepping the cars.

No one dared mention anything.

No one brought the shouting, or the fact that i got dragged out like some drunk teenager by my coach.

Everyone seemed too busy pretending it hadn't happened.

Perfect.

"Early today," a mechanic muttered as i passed by.

I didn't reply.

Just slipped into my gear and headed toward the track.

And there he was.

Lorenzo.

Already waiting, arms crossed, looking like someone had personally offended him just by existing.

He didn't say anything at first.

Just scanned me from head to toe like i was a threat he couldn't place.

"Tapos ka na bang mag-rehab?" he finally asked, voice low but sharp.

I turned to him slowly. "Didn't realize i checked in."

His smirk was thin and irritating. "Could've fooled me."

God, I should've stayed home.

We went through the warm-ups like we weren't ready to strangle each other.

Barely speaking unless necessary.

The tension between us was so palpable, even the pit crew kept their distance.

But of course, Lorenzo couldn't keep his mouth shut for long.

"You're still too stiff with the gear shifts," he barked as i completed my second lap. "You're thinking too much. That hesitation? It'll cost you seconds. Seconds you don't have."

I unclipped my helmet and glared. "Then stop yelling instructions when i'm mid-turn."

"I'm trying to help."

"No, you're trying to be annoying."

He stepped closer, jaw tightening. "You act like you already know everything, Miss Gutierrez. You don't."

I tossed the helmet onto the seat. "I never said i did."

"You act like this is just another thing to tick off your bucket list," he snapped. "Like you're bored and looking for a new thrill."

"What's your problem with me?" I asked, my voice rising. "Is it that i'm new? That i didn't kiss your ass when i walked in here?"

"You don't take anything seriously."

I laughed—sharp and humorless. "Because i don't cry after every lap? Because i don't melt under pressure?"

"No, because you treat this like a game."

"And you treat it like a religion," I snapped. "Which is honestly worse."

He stared at me, something unreadable flashing in his eyes.

Maybe rage. Maybe something else.

We stood there—tense, breathing hard, the air between us practically crackling.

I turned back toward the car. "I'm driving again."

He followed, still talking. "And maybe this time, don't act like it's your first day behind the wheel—"

"For god's sake—" I muttered, gripping the door.

"—this is precision, Miss Gutierrez, not a fashion shoot. You want to win races? You listen."

I buckled myself in, jaw clenched. "Mr Buenaventura—"

"You can't just be fast. You have to be flawless and right now, you're not even close."

I revved the engine.

"You hear me?"

"Shut up." I snapped.

"I said—"

"I said shut up!"

And then, I don't know what the hell possessed me, I leaned over and kissed him.

Hard.

Right on the mouth.

One hand still on the gearshift, the other gripping the steering wheel.

Just to make him stop.

Just to finally silence that goddamn voice that kept gnawing at my nerves like sandpaper.

He froze.

I pulled back, not even giving him a chance to react.

"Can you please shut up for the moment and let me drive in peace?" I said through gritted teeth.

His eyes were wide, stunned like someone had slapped him and he couldn't quite decide whether to be pissed or impressed.

I didn't wait for an answer.

I slammed the car into gear and took off.

The tires screeched against the asphalt as i launched forward, the engine roaring, the seat vibrating under me.

This—this was the only place i could breathe.

The only time everything quieted down.

The track didn't talk back.

It didn't criticize.

It didn't care what i looked like or what happened the night before.

It just demanded everything and gave everything back if you earned it.

Lap after lap, I pushed harder.

And every time i passed the pit wall, I didn't look at him.

I didn't care what expression he wore or if he was still stunned from the kiss or if he was writing out a list of reasons why i should be kicked off the team. I don't care.

I just drove.

By the time i rolled to a stop, my arms were shaking.

I pulled off the helmet, hair sticking to my neck, sweat dripping down my back.

He was still there.

Waiting.

Expression unreadable.

Great.

I walked past him, shoulders stiff, refusing to meet his eyes.

He followed, of course.

"You seriously need to learn emotional regulation," he muttered.

I didn't answer.

"That was a cheap move."

"You were annoying."

He scoffed. "That's your excuse?"

I spun around, finally facing him. "What do you want from me, Mr Buenaventura?"

"I want you to take this seriously."

"I am taking this seriously. I show up. I listen—even when you won't shut up. I drive. What more do you want?"

He opened his mouth but nothing came out.

We stood in silence again.

Eventually, I turned back toward the gear room.

He didn't stop me this time.

Just stood there.

Watching.

Back at the garage, I downed the water bottle someone handed me and wiped my face with a towel.

The adrenaline had worn off.

Now all i felt was tired.

Not just physically but also emotionally.

Tired of this push and pull.

Tired of whatever this thing between me and Lorenzo was.

Tired of pretending like nothing happened.

Tired of pretending like something had.

I glanced at the clock.

Still another hour before training officially ended.

I sat on the edge of a tire stack and stared at my shoes.

How the hell did i end up here?

How did we go from yelling to kissing to yelling again?

Why did he always bring out the worst in me?

Or maybe the most honest.

"Here."

I looked up.

He was standing in front of me, holding a small can.

Soda? Some fizzy thing i'd seen athletes drink before.

I stared at it.

Then at him.

"What's this?" I asked warily.

"Truce," he muttered. "Temporary."

I took it.

Opened the can.

Drank it in one gulp.

Neither of us spoke.

Just silence again.

Maybe that was the best we could do for now.

Silence that didn't come from hate, but exhaustion.

Silence that meant we were trying.

Even if we didn't know how.