Chapter 14: Midnight Balm
The photo from Hungary went viral within the team's private channels before the official social media team even got their hands on it. It was a shot taken from the side, not by the official photographer, but by Max’s girlfriend, who’d been snapping candid behind-the-scenes moments. In it, the team was a blurry, grinning backdrop. The focus, entirely unintentional, was on the edge of the frame.
Sergio’s profile was sharp, his head tilted down towards Alma, who was tucked against his side. His thumb rested against her temple, just grazing the fine, silvery scar. Her face was turned up towards his, not at the camera. She wasn’t smiling a professional, photo-ready smile. Her expression was one of profound, quiet relief, her eyes closed, her features soft. He was looking at her with an expression that had no business being on a racetrack. It was focused, possessive, and tender all at once.
The caption from Max’s girlfriend in the WhatsApp group was just three fire emojis.
Alma saw it later that night, alone in her hotel room. She stared at the image for a long time, her chest tight. It was one thing to feel the shift between them in the private dark of a garage or a car. It was another to see it reflected back, undeniable and permanent, in pixels. She saved the picture, then immediately felt a spike of guilt, as if she’d stolen something.
Three days later, they were in Monaco. The pressure here was different—a glittering, claustrophobic fishbowl where the parties were as scrutinized as the practice laps. Sergio’s penthouse, high above the harbor, was a refuge of cool, minimalist lines and breathtaking views. It felt more like a showroom than a home, all concrete, glass, and expensive, uncomfortable-looking sofas.
Alma had spent the evening at a sponsor cocktail event at the team’s yacht, translating, smoothing egos, and fielding questions about Sergio’s fitness, his mindset, his car. Her cheeks ached from the constant, polite smiling. Her brain felt like static from shifting between five languages. The high-speed glamour of Monaco, the shriek of engines echoing off the buildings, the pervading smell of salt, fuel, and expensive perfume—it was a sensory assault.
She let herself into the penthouse with her key, the silence a physical relief after the din. Sergio was still out at a driver’s dinner. The vast space was dark, lit only by the mesmerizing grid of harbor lights and the distant, bobbing glow of superyachts.
She didn’t bother with the main lights. She went straight to the guest bathroom—her bathroom, though she never called it that—and leaned heavily on the sink. In the soft glow of the vanity lights, her reflection looked pale, strained. The carefully applied makeup that had survived the evening felt like a mask made of plaster.
She reached for the cleanser, methodically working it into her skin. The motion was familiar, a daily ritual of erasure. But tonight, as her fingertips swept over her jawline, tracing the raised line, she winced. The tension wasn’t just in her mind; it was locked deep in the muscles of her face, a rigid cage around her skull. She closed her eyes, pressing the heels of her hands into her temples, trying to knead the stiffness away. It was useless.
She didn’t hear him come in. The penthouse was too large, the carpets too thick. The first sign was a change in the light, a shadow falling across the doorway. Then, the subtle scent of his cologne, mixed with the night air and a hint of expensive red wine.
She opened her eyes. He was leaning against the doorframe, still in his dark dinner jacket, tie loosened. He’d been watching her. For how long, she didn’t know.
“Rough night?” he asked, his voice a low rasp in the quiet.
“The usual,” she said, turning back to the mirror, avoiding his gaze. She reached for a cotton pad. “Monsieur Ricard was particularly… detailed in his opinions about the car’s livery. For forty minutes.”
A soft, knowing sound came from his throat. She saw his reflection move closer in the mirror. He stopped behind her, not touching. “He’s an idiot who sells bottled water. You should have told him to fuck off.”
“My contract,” she said, wiping away the last of her makeup, revealing the tired skin and the pale map of her scars beneath, “suggests a more diplomatic approach.”
He was quiet for a moment. His eyes in the mirror were on her bare face, studying it with an artist’s concentration. “It’s still there,” he said quietly.
A cold knot formed in her stomach. “What is?”
“The wince. When you touched your jaw.” His hand came up. He didn’t touch her. His fingers hovered just beside her cheek, a whisper away. “You’re holding onto today with your teeth.”
The accuracy of it stunned her into silence. She just stared at his reflection, her defenses too weary to rally.
“Wait here,” he murmured.
He disappeared. She heard the soft glide of a drawer in his bedroom, a faint clink. She stood, frozen, one hand braced on the cool marble counter. What was she doing? This was his home. She was his employee. This was the line, the one they’d been toeing for months, gleaming and electric under their feet.
He returned holding a small, amber glass bottle. He set it on the counter beside her. “Sit,” he said, nodding towards the closed toilet lid.
“Sergio, I don’t think—”
“Alma.” His voice was calm, leaving no room for debate. It wasn’t the voice of her boss. It was the voice of the man who’d promised to walk away from a team photo with her. “Sit. You’re no use to me tomorrow if you can’t turn your head to check your blind spot.”
It was a practical excuse, flimsy and transparent. They both knew it.
Slowly, she sat. The room felt smaller. He stood behind her, a tall, warm presence blocking out the rest of the world. She heard the quiet pop of the bottle being opened, then the rich, herbal scent of lemon and sage filled the small space. He poured oil into his palms, the sound thick and smooth.
His hands were warm when they first settled on her bare shoulders. Not hesitant, but infinitely careful. His thumbs found the knots at the base of her neck and began to work them with a firm, precise pressure. She couldn’t stop the sharp intake of breath.
“Sorry,” he muttered, his voice close to her ear. “Always harder than it looks.”
He didn’t apologize again. His hands learned her. They moved up, his fingers combing into the hair at her nape, pressing into her scalp. The tension there was a solid block. He worked at it patiently, his fingers strong and deliberate. A soft, involuntary groan escaped her lips before she could choke it back. She felt him go still for a second behind her, then his hands resumed, a fraction slower.
He moved to her temples, his touch now feather-light, tracing slow, maddening circles. He skated down the line of her jaw, avoiding the scars at first, just loosening the clenched muscle beneath. Every nerve ending was awake, singing. The world narrowed to the heat of his hands, the slide of the oil, the scent of him and the herbs, the sound of their breathing in the quiet room.
Then his thumbs, slick and warm, finally made contact with the longest scar. He didn’t trace it playfully as he sometimes did. He pressed along its length, a deep, steady pressure, as if he could smooth the memory from her skin. He did the same with the finer ones on her cheek, his touch methodical, therapeutic, and utterly intimate.
Her head lolled forward. The last of her resistance melted. A long, shaky sigh poured out of her, the breath she felt like she’d been holding since Budapest, since Hungary, since the day she’d first walked into a paddock. It was a sound of pure surrender.
His hands paused. One left her face. She heard the soft click of the bottle again. Then both his palms were covering her face, his fingers spread from her forehead to her chin, warming the fresh oil. He held them there, a gentle, encompassing pressure, and she felt something crack open behind her ribs.
Tears, hot and sudden, welled in her closed eyes. They didn’t fall. They just pooled there, a silent testament to the sheer, dismantling relief of not having to be strong, not having to be polished, not having to be anything at all except a collection of tight muscles under his skilled hands.
He felt the shudder that went through her. His hands slid down, cradling her face, his thumbs catching the moisture that finally escaped and slipped down her temples.
“There it is,” he whispered, his voice rough. “Your first real expression all day.”
He didn’t ask about the tears. He didn’t offer empty comfort. He just kept working, his hands moving down to the rigid cords of her shoulders again, kneading the remaining stress away until she was pliant and boneless under his touch.
When he finally stopped, his hands resting lightly on her shoulders, the silence was profound. The harbor hummed far below. She was raw, exposed, and more at peace than she could remember.
Slowly, she lifted her head. In the mirror, she saw her own face, clean and flushed, her eyes bright. And she saw him, looking over her shoulder, his gaze dark and unreadable.
His hands slid from her shoulders, down her arms, a final, lingering pass. Then he stepped back, creating a space of cool air between them. He recapped the bottle.
“Get some sleep,” he said, his tone shifting back towards the practical. “The track walk is at seven. The paparazzi will be thick.”
He left the bathroom, leaving the scent of lemon and sage and the echo of his touch hanging in the air. Alma sat there for a long time, listening to the distant sounds of him moving around in the penthouse, the low rumble of his voice as he took a phone call in the other room.
She looked at her reflection again. The woman looking back still had the scars. But the wince was gone. The lines of strain were softened. And in her eyes, there was a new, unnerving clarity.
The line was gone. It had been crossed not with a kiss or a declaration, but with warmed oil and a knowing touch in a silent room. There was no going back to before.
She woke to the sound of the espresso machine hissing in the kitchen, and the memory of his hands. It was woven into the fabric of her muscles, a deep, liquid ease she hadn’t felt upon waking in years. Sunlight cut sharp lines across the pristine white duvet. For a moment, she just lay there, cataloging the unfamiliar sensation of being utterly relaxed.
The scent of coffee and toasted bread pulled her from bed. She found him in the kitchen, a sleek space of white marble and dark wood. He was dressed for the track walk in teamwear, but barefoot. He pushed a cup across the island to her, black, just how she took it. Their fingers brushed.
“Sleep okay?” he asked. His eyes were on her, assessing.
“Yes.” She took a sip, the bitter heat clearing the last fog. “Thank you. For last night.”
He shrugged, a small, fluid movement. “You were a knot. I untied it.” He said it like it was simple mechanics. But his gaze drifted to her jaw, then away, as if checking his work.
She turned to look at the view, giving him her profile. The scar was just a line in the morning light. He moved then, coming around the island to stand beside her at the window. The harbor was calm, a mirror for the absurdly large yachts. His shoulder was a centimeter from hers.
“Media pen is at ten,” she said, her voice too business-like for the proximity.
“I know.”
“Lando will try to get a rise out of you about the Austria overtake.”
“Let him.”
She felt his look more than saw it. It was a physical weight on the side of her face. She turned her head. He was already there, closer than she’d anticipated. The kitchen was silent except for the hum of the Sub-Zero. The world outside the glass was impossibly distant.
His hand came up. She didn’t flinch. His thumb found her bottom lip, the now-familiar pilgrimage. This time, there was no hesitation, no slow build. His eyes were dark, fixed on her mouth. He pressed in, his thumb slipping past her lips with an authority that stole her breath.
But it was different. He didn’t just rest it there. He moved. A slow, deliberate stroke along the flat of her tongue, from back to front. The intimacy was so profound, so shockingly specific, her eyes flew open wider.
A sound escaped her, unbidden. A low, breathy moan, sweet and soft in the quiet kitchen. It was pure reaction, a direct signal from her nerves to her voice, bypassing every filter.
The effect on him was instantaneous. A wrecked, gut-deep groan vibrated from his chest. His other hand came up to frame her face, his fingers tangling in her hair. “Mi Alma,” he whispered, his voice shattered. “You’re so sweet.”
Her eyes fluttered closed. Surrender.
She let him. Her tongue softened, yielding to the press and slide of his thumb. He explored the shape of her mouth with a focused reverence, tracing the ridge of her palate, the smooth inner wall of her cheek. Her own saliva coated his skin, the sound wet and quiet in the space between them. He dragged his thumb out, painting her glistening lower lip, then pushed back in, deeper this time.
He was learning her. And she was letting him. Every sigh, every slight shift of her jaw, was a piece of data he absorbed. His own breathing was ragged, his forehead now pressed against hers as he watched his thumb disappear between her lips.
It was a threshold. Acknowledged and held. His thumb in her mouth, her taste on his skin, their breath mingling. But their lips, a whisper apart, never touched.
The buzzer from the penthouse door blared, harsh and electronic. A voice crackled through. “Sergio? Track walk in ten. You downstairs?”
He froze. His thumb rested heavily on her tongue for one last, endless second. Slowly, he withdrew. His thumb was slick. He didn’t wipe it. He just looked at it, then at her swollen, wet mouth.
He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. “Later.”
Then he turned, grabbed his cap and phone, and was gone. The door clicked shut. Alma stood gripping the cold marble counter, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs, the sweet, salty taste of him still on her tongue.
Alma stood gripping the cold marble counter, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs, the sweet, salty taste of him still on her tongue. The silence he left behind was a roaring thing. She pressed her own fingers to her lips, feeling the phantom pressure, the stunning wet warmth that had been him.
She mechanically finished her coffee, the bitter grounds now a pale echo against the memory. She dressed for the track walk in crisp linen, her armor. The fabric felt foreign against her skin, which still hummed.
Down at the circuit, the world was all glare and shouted greetings. The track walk was a circus of filming, interviews, and casual strategizing. Sergio was ahead, surrounded by his engineers, pointing at a kerb. He glanced back once, his sunglasses hiding his eyes, but his head tilted a fraction. A silent check-in.
Lando fell into step beside her, his easy grin in place. “Alright, Alma? You look… relaxed.”
“I’m always relaxed,” she said, her tone perfectly even.
“Right.” He chuckled, nodding toward Sergio. “He’s less prickly today. Did he finally get a decent sleep?” The implication was light, teasing, and entirely accurate.
“The car is balanced,” she replied, the ultimate deflection. “It puts everyone in a better mood.”
The day unfolded in a blur of schedules. The pressure was a living entity, tightening with each practice session. Sergio finished P2 third fastest, a good result, but he was dissatisfied with the rear grip. His feedback was clipped, technical, a focused storm.
Back in the penthouse that evening, the air was charged with unspent energy. He was coiled on the sofa, reviewing footage on his tablet, his brow furrowed. Alma worked at the dining table, fielding emails. The silence was no longer comfortable. It was a wire, stretched taut.
“It’s the tire temp,” he muttered, not to her, to the universe. “We can’t get it into the window.”
“The data suggests the camber adjustment might be too aggressive,” she said without looking up, citing a report she’d digested an hour ago.
He tossed the tablet onto the cushion. It was a gesture of pure frustration. He stood and paced to the window, running a hand through his hair. The setting sun glazed the room in angry gold.
Alma watched him. The tension he’d kneaded from her body the night before was now viscerally present in his. It vibrated off him. She knew her job. She was supposed to solve problems, to ease burdens.
She stood and walked to the kitchen. She found the small jar of local lavender honey he liked in his tea. She didn’t think. She just dipped her finger in, scooping a thick, golden dollop.
She walked to where he stood, a silhouette against the fading light. She didn’t speak. She simply reached out and took his hand. He flinched, surprised, his eyes cutting from the view to her. She turned his palm up and deposited the honey onto his thumb.
He stared at the sticky gloss, then at her face. Understanding was a dark, slow wave in his eyes. His breath hitched.
He lifted his hand. With a deliberate, languid slowness, he dragged his honey-coated thumb across her bottom lip. The sweetness was shocking, cloying and rich. It smeared. He held her gaze, his own blazing.
“Suck,” he whispered. The word was rough, a command stripped bare.
Her lips parted. Her tongue darted out, a quick, instinctive taste. Then she took his thumb into her mouth.
The world dissolved into that single, syrupy point of contact. She closed her lips around him, applying soft, steady pressure. She sucked the sweetness clean, her tongue swirling over the pad of his thumb, coaxing the thick residue away. A low, wrecked groan tore from his chest. It was a sound of pure undoing.
She didn’t stop. Her eyes locked on his, she drew deeper, her hand coming up to wrap around his wrist, not to pull him away, but to anchor him there. She was keeping him. The taste of honey and salt and him flooded her senses.
He was trembling. His other hand flew up to cup the side of her neck, his fingers pressing into her hair. “Alma,” he choked out.
She released his thumb with a soft, wet sound. Her lips were glistening, bee-stung. Her breath came in short pulls. She looked utterly wrecked, beautifully shattered, all her quiet confidence unspooled right there in his hands.
He stared at her, his chest heaving. The last of the sun caught the gold in his irises. The wire between them about to snap when they are interrupted.