Page 82 of Speed Crush

“Well,” I grin, “I sent you something. Should be arriving at school any minute.”

She pauses. “You what?”

“Lunch. You said you forgot yours this morning. Figured you may want something warm and comforting.”

“Noah Verelli, you did not.” And right on cue, I hear the announcement over our call, “Calling Miss Kennedy to the front desk.”

June actually claps. That surprised, gleeful laugh—loud and real—makes it sound like I just performed a magic trick.

“I figured if I can’t be in your time zone, at least I can be on your plate.”

She disappears for a minute. I picture her storming the hall with that purposeful teacher stride, coat probably half-on, muttering under her breath like she’s fighting the urge to be touched by my gesture.

When she’s back, she’s breathless. "You sent me grilled cheese and tomato soup? What a great care package, Noah!"

"Consider it an edible hug from your boyfriend." I brag.

"Ooo.. an apple pie too! You're the best boyfriend in the world!"

"Well, I know you need your comfort carb of choice when it’s freezing out."

She’s quiet for a second too long, and I catch the glistening in her eyes before she blinks it away.

"You’re ridiculous and sweet. And kind of dangerous. If you keep doing things like this, I might actually start crying—because I miss you way too much."

"I live to serve—and to ruin you for all other delivery men."

Another pause. Then I see it—that soft, shaky exhale. The kind that says she’s trying to reset her entire nervous system in the next twelve minutes before a hallway full of hormonal teenagers tries to eat each other with plastic forks.

"Thank you," she whispers. "I really needed this today. You seriously just made my whole week in a twenty-minute lunch window."

My chest tightens. I wish I could do more. Reach through the phone and hold her.

"I’ve got you, Songbird. Even from here. Now, you’ve got ten minutes left of your lunch break, so go eat while it’s still hot. I’ll call it a night over here too—best way to end my day is hearing your voice. And that laugh."

“Good night, Noah. I can’t wait till I see you for real this weekend!”

When I see June in person again a few days later, it's the Martin Luther King Jr. Day weekend. June flew out to be with me—used her only long weekend for the month just to show up at a private F1 test facility at HQ. It's closed garage, no press, no distractions.

My weekend schedule’s packed with supercars, real pressure, and now… her. And having her within arm’s reach makes even the longest day feel easier. I just hope it doesn’t start to bore her.

She shows up in dark jeans, a fleece-lined jacket, hair braided back, and a small suitcase. And still—she takes my breath. And quite literally so, with a kiss that has me forgetting every spec sheet I studied this morning.

She doesn’t wear makeup. Doesn’t try to blend in. She’s just... June. Quiet. Sharp. Unapologetically curious, watching every move in the track garage. Eyes shining with that look she gets when she’s soaking everything in.

Dante clocks her at once. Gives me a single brow raise, then turns back to briefing the executive team—this time updating them on FIA’s announcement confirming the new season calendar: Singapore Grand Prix’s set to open the season, and it’s a night race. No doubt the exec team’s already shifting gears, mentally rerouting logistics and strategy.

A few hours later, I’m climbing out of the cockpit after a ten-lap performance run—tires still hot, helmet tucked under one arm, sweat drying fast in the drafty garage. The throttle felt off mid-lap. I can still feel it in my calves, that hesitation on the back straight where it should’ve pulled clean.

I walk over to the crew and start rattling off my mental notes. “Throttle lag kicked in halfway through the back straight,” I tell them, tugging off my gloves. “Felt like it hesitated on reapplication—just enough to throw the rhythm off.”

Zach’s already hunched over the data station, muttering to himself while two more junior engineers flank him, all of them poring over the diagnostics, elbows close, eyes narrowed.

There’s a low hum of technical jargon in the air—numbers, readings, a few curse words tossed under breath like punctuation. The stress is real, and the scramble to pinpoint what’s throwing the balance off grows by the second.

June, who’s been hovering in the background for most of the afternoon while I’ve been lapping, watches for a moment, then moves in with quiet purpose. She leans forward slightly, eyes scanning the telemetry, then glances at the monitor and frowns. "That delay might not be software. It might be physical."

Zach turns to her. "Excuse me?"

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