Chapter 8: Proximity

I went back to his house that night.

Not because I wanted to. Because the alternative was letting him decide what “long term” looked like without me in the room.

Rex opened the door looking like he had been waiting. Same dark jeans. Different shirt. The house was quieter than the night before, the city lights sharp beyond the glass.

“You’re on time,” he said.

“Don’t sound surprised.”

He stepped aside. I walked in and stopped near the kitchen island, keeping the wide counter between us like it could actually protect me.

“Say what you need to say,” I told him.

Rex leaned against the opposite side of the island. “The access is working. The team manager already got questions about why you’re suddenly cleared for more zones. I handled it. You’re listed as additional media support for the next two weeks.”

“Two weeks?”

“For now.” His eyes stayed on mine. “Long enough for you to get the shots you actually need. Long enough for people to get used to seeing you near the car.”

I crossed my arms. “And long enough for you to keep testing how far I’ll bend.”

“That too.”

The honesty should have made me angrier. Instead it settled under my skin like heat.

“What else?” I asked.

“We need rules that actually work in public.” He straightened. “No more freezing every time I walk into a room. No more finding the farthest corner of the garage. If someone asks why you’re around more, you stick to the staffing story. And when I talk to you in front of the crew, you answer like a professional instead of someone counting the seconds until she can leave.”

“That’s a lot of instructions.”

“It’s the bare minimum if we don’t want Ethan asking harder questions.”

The mention of my brother’s name tightened something in my chest. I looked away toward the windows.

“I’ll try,” I said.

“Trying isn’t enough. You either do it or the deal starts costing you more.”

I met his eyes again. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“I’m adapting,” he said. “You should too.”

We left it there. I drove home with the new terms sitting heavy in my head, already dreading how the next day would feel.

It felt worse.

The temporary badge around my neck might as well have been a target. The second I stepped into the garage the following morning, the energy shifted. Crew members nodded at me with more recognition than before. One of the junior engineers even asked if I needed help finding a better angle for the tire warmers.

Rex was already there, standing beside the car with Marcus. He looked up the moment I entered, like he had a sensor tuned specifically to me. He didn’t smile. He just held my gaze long enough for heat to crawl up the back of my neck, then returned to the conversation.

I took my place near the pit wall and forced myself to work.

Proximity was different when it was constant.

During the first practice run I could hear his radio chatter through the open channels. His voice stayed calm even when the engineer called out a problem with balance. When he climbed out of the car between sessions, the heat rolling off the brakes mixed with the faint scent of his sweat and the cologne that still lived under my pillow at home. I kept the camera up like a barrier. It didn’t help. Every time he walked past me the air changed.

Halfway through the morning he stopped beside me while an engineer checked something on the rear wing.

“You’re still standing like you’re ready to run,” he said under his breath.

“I’m working.”

“You’re bracing.” His shoulder almost brushed mine as he leaned in to look at the same data screen the engineer was holding. To anyone else it looked like a casual technical discussion. To me it felt like the temperature had climbed ten degrees. “Relax your shoulders, Bennett. People notice tension.”

I forced my posture to loosen. The effort made my jaw ache.

Rex stayed there longer than necessary. When he finally moved away, the space he left behind felt too empty and too charged at the same time.

By midday the pattern was clear. Every session put me closer to him than the last. Every conversation in front of the team required me to answer without the old sharp edge. The performance was exhausting. Worse, it was starting to feel less like a performance and more like something I had to actively stop myself from slipping into.

During a short break I stepped away to review shots on my camera. Rex appeared at my shoulder without warning.

“Show me.”

I hesitated, then tilted the screen toward him. He scrolled through a few frames of the car coming into the pits, the heat haze, the focused set of his mouth under the helmet shadow.

“These are good,” he said.

The simple compliment landed harder than it should have. I pulled the camera back.

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“I’m not.” His eyes flicked to mine. “I’m adjusting my expectations upward.”

Before I could reply, one of the media coordinators called my name from across the garage. I used the interruption as an exit and walked away with my pulse still uneven.

The afternoon only made the proximity tighter.

Rex’s second practice run ended with a minor issue on the front left. He climbed out looking irritated, pulling the helmet off with more force than usual. Sweat darkened the collar of his undershirt. When his eyes found me standing near the barriers, something unreadable passed through them.

He walked over while the mechanics swarmed the car.

“You’re getting better at not looking away,” he said quietly.

“Don’t flatter yourself. I’m doing a job.”

“You’re doing both.” He glanced at the camera in my hands. “Keep shooting through the next setup change. I want the frustration on record. It makes the later wins look better.”

“That’s cynical.”

“That’s racing.”

He stayed close while the crew worked. Close enough that when he shifted his weight his arm brushed mine. The contact was brief. Accidental on the surface. Deliberate underneath. My skin prickled where he had touched me. I kept my eyes on the car and pretended the reaction belonged to someone else.

It didn’t work.

By the time the final session of the day wrapped, my nerves felt scraped raw. I had spent hours measuring every expression, every step, every second of eye contact. The old version of me would have left the second the checkered flag fell. This version had to stay until the schedule said otherwise.

I was packing lenses when Rex found me again near the back of the garage.

“Walk with me.”

“I’m finishing up.”

“It can wait five minutes.”

I followed him out past the service trucks to a quieter stretch of the paddock. The evening air carried the leftover smell of fuel and hot rubber. Rex stopped and turned to face me.

“You’re adapting faster than I expected,” he said.

“Is that a compliment or a threat?”

“Both.” He studied my face. “Ethan asked about you this afternoon. Wanted to know why you were suddenly glued to the team. I stuck to the staffing story. He accepted it. For now.”

Relief and dread tangled in my stomach.

“Thank you,” I made myself say.

Rex’s mouth curved slightly. “Don’t thank me yet. The closer you get to the team, the closer you get to me. That’s the part you still haven’t fully accepted.”

“I’m standing here, aren’t I?”

“You’re standing here because the deal requires it.” He took a step closer. Not enough to touch. Enough that I had to tip my chin up. “I want to know what happens when the deal stops being the only reason.”

My heartbeat stumbled.

“That’s not part of the arrangement.”

“Everything is part of the arrangement now.” His voice dropped. “Including the way you watched me during the last run. You thought I didn’t notice. I did.”

Heat flooded my face. I had been careful. Or I thought I had.

“I was doing my job.”

“You were tracking me,” he said. “The same way I’ve been tracking you. Difference is, I stopped pretending it was only about leverage.”

The words hung between us, heavier than the cooling evening air. I wanted to deny it. The denial sat on my tongue and refused to form. Because he was right. At some point during the day the camera had stopped being only a shield. I had started looking for him the same way he looked for me.

Rex watched the realization move across my face.

“Tomorrow will be closer,” he said. “More sessions. More time in the same spaces. If you’re going to keep the deal, you need to decide how much of yourself you’re willing to let me see while you do it.”

He stepped back, giving me room that somehow felt worse than the nearness.

“Go home, Aria. Review the shots. Get used to the idea that this is the new normal.”

I watched him walk back toward the garage, the temporary badge still hanging around my neck like proof of how thoroughly the walls had already shifted.

That night I sat on my bed with the camera in my lap, scrolling through the day’s images. Frame after frame of the car. The crew. The light. And too many frames where Rex filled the shot without me fully remembering the decision to focus on him.

I set the camera down and pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes.

The deal was supposed to be simple. Stop the public act. Take the access. Survive.

It was already becoming something else.

My phone lit up on the nightstand.

Rex: You’re still awake.

Rex: Stop overthinking the photos.

Rex: They’re good.

Rex: And Aria

Rex: Tomorrow you don’t get to hide behind the lens the entire time.

Rex: I want to see your face when I look at you.