Page 12 of Flat Out
If either of you make me out to be a crazy woman, I WILL slam both of you on my interview with Pole Positioned. I go live in fifteen.
Marco
HUH? You're back in Paris already? HAVE YOU TELEPORTED?!
Aurélie
[link attached]
You can watch it live! I'll text you boys after.
I dropped the phone onto my chest, then grunted from the surge of pain.
Holy shit.
She broke into my flat. She talked to my mum somehow. She was going to fly inevery dayfrom Paris just to make sure I was fed and upright andnot a disaster. She was re-scheduling my physical therapy. She was punishing me—deliberately, methodically—for hurting her. And she was doing it all while launching a fucking campaign to gut the FIA with her words.
God, I missed her.
I sat up slowly, flinching at the fading daylight bleeding in through the curtain crack. My ribs screamed. Everything else fuckingached. Didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was the sudden, desperate need toseeher. That was what ached the most.
She said she was going live in a studio in fifteen minutes. That was ten minutes ago, and the group chat had since gone silent.
I grabbed the remote off the nightstand, squinting against the glow of the TV as it powered on. The brightness pierced through my eyes like a knife, but I pushed through it, blinking until my vision adjusted, then I switched over to YouTube.
And there it was.
POLE POSITIONED: Live with Aurélie Dubois—F1's Rising Star
The thumbnail was her with a slick ponytail, bold red lips, and hypnotic hazel eyes tired but sharp enough to cut glass.
I let the loading wheel spin, heart pounding harder with every second. The feed hadn't started yet, but the desperation to see her nearly crushed me worse than my crash had. I pressed a hand over my heart.
She’d been here a handful of hours ago, whispering in French while I slept. Touching me with lavender-scented fingers, like Iwas fragile and hers all at once. Leaving behind this version of her—composed, gentle, breathtaking—for the cameras.
And now I got to watch the woman I loved walk into a studio and burn everything down with elegance.
Fuck, I loved her.
But I also hurt her. IknewI had. And I hadn’t even begun to make it right.
My head still pounding, I pushed myself to my feet, eyes snagging on my tidied nightstand. There was a tin with a note on the top. The handwriting was hers—slanted, feminine, and a little hurried. I picked it up and peeled the sticky note from the top.
We make this at home. It’s a family secret—but it helps. Rub gently on ribs, shoulders, neck. Twice a day, after a hot shower if you can. Don’t skip it. Let it soak in. Let me take care of you for once. I know you hate rest, but I need you whole.
– Your girl
My girl. God, I didn’t deserve her.
I held the paper to my chest and closed my eyes. She came back, and fuck me if I wasn’t going to do everything in my power to make sure she stayed.
I slowly padded into the kitchen, every step shooting arrows of pain through me, and stopped dead in my tracks. The place… was spotless. The counters gleamed, the dishes were gone, and even the air out here smelled faintly of lemon and lavender. Another sticky note, stuck to the fridge.
Eat & Rest
– Chicken & rice soup: 2 minutes, stir, 30 seconds more
– Pasta with lemon & parsley oil: Cold is fine, warm is better
