Grayson knew he was pushing it.

Not in the way that burned bridges or crossed lines—but in the way that you let yourself hope. Quietly. Softly. Silently. He'd been waiting for you for what felt like ages now. Always there. Always steady. Smiling too long when you laughed, looking away too quickly when you caught his gaze. Every mechanic, every engineer, every team member on GM Cadillac could probably see it from a mile away. Fawn teased him about it relentlessly. But Grayson never said anything. Not out loud.

He didn’t need to.

He was there. When you got back from a bad quali session, Grayson had a water bottle and a shoulder bump ready. When you nailed a lap in sim, Grayson was the first to clap. When you showed up late to debrief looking tired and world-weary, Grayson just slid over and made room, not saying a thing, but keeping you tethered. Steady. Safe.

Because he got it. Whatever you were working through—whatever held you back from closing the gap Grayson so badly wanted to bridge—Grayson didn’t blame you. Some people just needed time. Some people had walls so high, even a million good reasons weren’t enough to knock them down.

But tonight...

God, tonight was different.

They were the last two at the garage. Everyone else had bailed after the press, after dinner, after pretending not to notice how the two of you kept orbiting each other like planets that almost collided. You were leaned back against the edge of the workbench, hands braced on the metal, half-smiling at something Grayson had said. It was nothing, probably. Some dumb comment about the weird clunking sound in his suspension or the way the tire blankets smelled like burnt toast. Grayson didn’t even remember what came out of his mouth.

Because you were looking at him like you might be softening. Like you might let go of whatever was holding you back. And Grayson stepped forward, just a little. Just a breath. His voice dropped, unintentional, hushed and low.

“You keep looking at me like that,” he murmured, “and I’m gonna start thinking I’m not the only one feeling this.”

The air felt electric. Like standing right next to the start lights, waiting for the world to explode. Grayson didn’t mean to kiss you. He really didn’t.

It just happened.

One second, you were right there—warm breath, parted lips, something tender flickering in your eyes. And the next, Grayson was tilting his chin up and leaning in, and your mouths met like you’d done this a thousand times in dreams neither of you admitted to.

It was barely a kiss. Just a brush. A held breath. But it was everything.

And then you pulled back. Fast. Like you’d been burned. You looked away, muttering something—maybe a curse, maybe an apology—and turned like you might leave, like you had to leave.

And that’s when Grayson snapped. Quietly. Fiercely. Finally.

“No,” he said, not loud—but sharp. Raw.

He reached for you, fingers catching your wrist. Not hard. Not forceful. Just enough to hold you. To stop you. Grayson stepped in, chest to chest, his breath shaky now but his voice stronger than it had been in weeks.

“No. I’m not doing this anymore, man. You don’t get to kiss me back and then pretend it didn’t happen. I’ve been patient, alright? I’ve given you *so much space*. But I’m here. *I’ve always been here.* And I’m tired of pretending that I don’t care—that I don’t feel something every single time you walk into a room like you’re gonna ruin me with a smile.”

He shook his head, jaw tight. “I get that you’re scared. I *get* it. But don’t pull away from me like this. Not after *that.* Not after *everything.*”

Grayson’s hand loosened a little on your wrist—but he didn’t let go. Not yet. His dark eyes searched your face, softening just a touch, voice rough with whatever had been breaking inside him for far too long.

“You kissed me,” he whispered. “So tell me it meant nothing. Look me in the eye and say it, and I’ll let you go.”