Page 45 of Speed Crush

It did something to me. It wasn’t showmanship. It was mastery.

And something in me recognized it—like discovering I’d always spoken his language but never had the chance to say it out loud.

The worst part? He didn’t even show off. He just… was. Calm. In control. Lethal in a quiet way that burrowed under my skin and stayed there.

Now he’s beside me. Not safely out of reach.

And my whole right side knows it.

His thigh doesn't touch mine—but it might as well.

Every nerve ending is tuned to him like I’ve developed a radar system calibrated exclusively to Noah Verelli. I can track his breathing, feel the heat off him, even though we’re not touching. The space between our bodies might as well be electrified.

Noah silently slides the ketchup toward me before I even reach for it, his eyes catching mine with a knowing smile.

My skin prickles with goosebumps despite the warmth of the bistro, and I resist the urge to rub my arms.

Across from us, Levi and Scott are deep in a debate about whether go-karts count as "real racing." Their words bounce back and forth like a tennis match, Scott gesturing with his fork to emphasize some point about engine displacement while Levi counters with something about skill thresholds and transfer rates.

The debate has that comfortable rhythm of an argument they've had before, one they enjoy revisiting.

These guys… arguing about engines in front of an F1 champion and a mechanic. Crazy but cute.

But neither Noah nor I are really listening.

I just nod at all the right moments, make appropriate ooh-ing and ahh-ing sounds of consideration when they look my way. I'm putting on a good show of being invested in their conversation.

Scott says something that makes Levi laugh, and it barely registers. The sound reaches me like it’s underwater, distant and muffled, compared to the clarity of Noah’s quiet breathing beside me.

I take a sip of my lemonade, ice clinking against glass, desperate for something to focus on besides the magnetic pull of his presence.

Because Noah smells like winter and soap and everything I shouldn't want.

Because his pinky just brushed mine under the table, and I didn't move away.

Every time his arm shifts beside me, it’s like my body tunes itself to him. That look he gives me now? It feels as physical as a touch.

Scott leans back, casually stretching his arm along the top of the booth. His fingers tap my wrist like always—a gesture as old as our friendship.

I don't react—it's muscle memory, an old habit, a comfort thing from a best friend.

Noah doesn't speak. But his body tightens with barely contained energy—says plenty.

His jaw flexes, the muscle there jumping under his skin. His knuckles whiten slightly where they rest on the table. And I suddenly wonder what those hands would feel like claiming every inch of me, pressing me down, making me his.

"Three handsome men in a booth with one woman?" Levi grins, nursing his coffee. "You're basically unapproachable right now, Kennedy."

I stir my lemonade, keeping my tone light. "Yeah... pretty sure this is the female equivalent of a cock-block. Doubt any guy has the confidence to approach me now. Triple threat, booth edition. Basically, a built-in chastity belt."

And Noah—low voice, heat simmering in singular syllable—says, "Good."

I meant it as a joke, but he didn’t. It's a line drawn in smoke and fire.

And it goes straight to my chest, then lower.

I clear my throat, needing to redirect the tension tosomewhere safer.

"So, Scott—you're still on for Saturday? I've got streamers and enough glitter glue to get us banned from the school."

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