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“I’m not supposed to fall for the journalist who roasted me alive either. But here we are.”

The desert wind carried the distant cheers of the crowd. He took her hand—not gently, but like a man grabbing a steering wheel before a crash. “I’m not supposed to fall for the journalist

No. We’re just getting to the green flag. 🏁 Maya found him behind the podium

Maya looked at their hands. Then at the floodlights of the Bahrain circuit, turning the night into a silver stage. peeling off his fireproofs.

“I stopped driving alone,” he said. After the flashbulbs faded, Maya found him behind the podium, peeling off his fireproofs.