Page 73 of Speed Crush

His words settle into me like a warm blanket. Like sunlight soaking into cold skin. He's holding my hand, and my life story. Gently.

“I’ve been thinking about what you said,” he rumbles. “About not wanting anyone temporary.”

His thumb moves slow across my knuckles.

“And it hit me,” he breathes, the words catching in his throat. “I’ve been temporary my whole life, June. Hotels. Contracts. Headlines. Everything I touch has an expiration date. And with my family, there’s never ever any emotional foothold.”

He pauses, and I swear the air inside the cabin stills with him.

After a few long moments, Noah speaks again. “Now, that I know what happened to you as a baby. I think I can finally understand—why you guard your heart like it’s the only thing keeping you upright. I get it now.”

He pulls my hand to his chest, presses it flat against the steady thrum of his heart.

“And I swear to you, June... watch me. Watch me love you unconditionally. With no finish line. No exit ramp. No end date.”

He exhales. "I want to be the reason you believe people can stay.”

His words crack something open in me.

I’ve spent my whole life pretending I was immune—like I didn’t care who stayed or who left, as long as I could stand on my own. But I do care. I care so much, it defines me. And the way he’s looking at me now—like I’m the only thing in the world that matters—it feels like freefall. Like the moment right before a crash.

I want to believe him. I ache to believe him.

But part of me still waits for the skid. The spin. The silence.

He leans closer, just enough that I feel the warmth of his breath.

“If I was yours,” he says, voice low and reverent, “you’d never have to wonder if I’d leave. I wouldn’t even know how.”

His words slammed into me, stealing the air from my lungs. My hand tightens in his, a tremor running through me.

It isn’t just the promise—it’s the raw vulnerability beneath it, the confession that he needs this as much as I do.

My heart hammers against my chest, a frantic drumbeat against the sudden, terrifying hope flooding my veins.

The cabin feels warmer. Tighter. Like the air knows what’s shifting between us.

He doesn’t kiss me. Doesn’t reach for more.

He just looks at me like he sees all the way through.

And I’ve never wanted someone more.

I look past him, toward the window to focus on the clouds outside.

The lump in my throat has nothing to do with altitude.

Never has desire clawed so insistently, so deep.

Never has someone felt so achingly essential.

We land in Milan just before noon, but it’s colder than I expected but still much warmer than Cedar Falls. The two-hour drive from the airport is sleek and quiet, the roads winding around snow-dusted foothills. I catch my reflection in the window more than once, flushed and grinning. It’s the butterflies. And the fact that I’m still holding Noah’s hand.

Noah walks me through the Fagioli HQ lobby—carbon fiber finishes, framed championship photos, staff in branded gear nodding as we pass. People glance. Then do a double take. Some even whisper.

Because I’m not just anyone.

I’m the woman Noah Verelli is holding hands with.