False Start

When the race ends, the real heat begins.
I know exactly how this is supposed to go: do the job, keep it professional, don’t get attached. Especially not to someone like Hutch.

Tire gunner. Menace. Walking bad decision.
He’s grease-streaked hands and a crooked grin, all sharp edges and zero filter, the kind of guy who says whatever he wants and somehow gets away with it. The kind of guy I don’t have time for.

Until a grounded flight and a string of bad luck strand us somewhere in rural France with a dying van, a questionable motel, and way too many hours stuck in each other’s orbit.
Somewhere between missed exits, bad coffee, and songs neither of us will admit to liking, the lines start to blur. What was supposed to be temporary starts to feel like something else. Something I don’t have a rule for.

Which is a problem.
Because the paddock has eyes. Because I’ve built my life on staying in control. Because Hutch doesn’t do careful—and I’ve never done this.
But the thing about bad decisions?

Sometimes they’re the only ones that feel right.