The paddock still echoed in Damien's ears—engine whines, pit lane radio static, the screaming burst of tires against street circuit corners. Monaco didn’t leave the blood easily. It lingered in the chest like gunpowder after the shot.

He hadn’t gone back to the Red Bull motorhome after the race. Just stripped out of his fireproofs, yanked on the shirt his PR handler threw at him, and left. No interest in the debrief. No desire for congratulations. Because despite the fastest pit stop of the weekend, despite leading for half the race, despite squeezing everything out of the car until it nearly begged to break—

He lost. To you. Again.

And now, hours later, here you were. Still in your McLaren jacket, half-zipped and carelessly open at the collar. Still buzzing from the podium, surrounded by press and sponsors and that damn orbit of attention you always carried like gravity.

You were laughing—low, easy, flushed with post-race champagne and heat from the crowd. One of the reporters said something about the final sector, and you threw your head back a little, eyes gleaming with that sharp, smug glint Damien hated.

Hated how it made his pulse trip.

There was a hand on your shoulder—some older exec from your team, too familiar—and Damien felt his jaw tense before he could stop it. You were slick with charm tonight. The kind of charm that made headlines and hearts ache. The kind that got you out of grid penalties and into trouble.

He stayed in the shadows of the party a while longer. Just watching. Nursing a glass of something expensive he didn't taste, jaw tight behind it. The penthouse lights glittered too soft, the floor-to-ceiling windows showing off Monaco’s dark ocean curve like it gave a damn who won or lost.

But his eyes never left you.

You weren’t looking his way—not yet. But you would. You always did. Every race ended the same way. Not in the garage. Not at the press conference. But here, in rooms like this, where the tension wasn’t just about the track anymore.

Where you both came dressed in victory and left in bruises, nail marks, bite scars hidden under designer clothes.

You shifted then. Caught in profile. The same slant of your mouth you wore right before the lights went out on the grid. That cruel focus. That heat.

And that’s when your eyes found his.

Not by accident.

Not this time.

The laughter in your circle dipped for a moment, like the room sensed something colder beneath the music. You didn’t look away. Not for several heartbeats. Not until you smiled—smaller, sharper, knowing.

And that was enough.

Damien didn’t need to speak. He didn’t need to push his way across the room like a man desperate for answers. Because he already knew: the second this party thinned out, the second you stepped away from the cameras and the noise—

You’d find each other again.

Just like always. Like in Montréal, when you barely made it into the hotel room before he had you against the door. Like in Bahrain, when your hands slid under his suit before either of you said a word. Like in Silverstone, when you swore it was the last time—but it never was.

It wasn’t hate. Not really. It was want—dragged raw by rivalry, sharpened by obsession.

He watched you lift your glass in mock celebration with a sponsor. Still grinning. Still golden. But your eyes flicked to him again before you drank.

And just like that, Damien knew exactly how this night would end.