Late, But Not Too Late

The paddock welcomed Jonas back the way it always did too loud, too bright, too full. Voices overlapped. Radios crackled. Someone clapped him on the shoulder hard enough to jolt him forward. Another hand pressed a bottle of water into his palm. Congratulations came in familiar tones, worn smooth by repetition. He answered them all the same way he always did, with small nods and polite words, present enough not to seem rude, distant enough not to be fully there.

It felt like stepping into a room after leaving it only moments ago and realizing something had shifted while he was gone. He moved automatically, muscle memory guiding him between trailers and equipment, past faces he had known for years. Everything was normal. Everything was exactly as it should be.

And yet, his hands still felt warm.

He slowed without realizing it, fingers flexing once at his side. His thumb brushed against his palm, a quiet, absent motion, and for a second the world thinned around him. He remembered the weight of her wrist when he had handed her the jacket. Not heavy. Just real. The faint hesitation before she took it, the way her fingers had lingered longer than necessary, as if neither of them had known how to let go properly.

The memory sat there, uninvited but gentle. Jonas exhaled slowly and shook his head once, as if clearing water from his ears. He reached into his pocket, fingers brushing the edge of his phone. Stopped. Not yet.

Later, he told himself, and tucked his hand away again.

Clara rejoined her team a few minutes later, slipping back into place like she had never left. She answered questions cleanly, efficiently, her voice steady. Lap data. Track conditions. Notes she had already organized in her head before anyone asked for them. People spoke at her, not with her, and she met it with practiced ease.

Only when she stopped moving did she realize she was still wearing the jacket.

It hung oversized on her frame, sleeves brushing past her wrists. She hadn’t noticed the weight of it until then. Or maybe she had, and her mind had simply refused to let go. Someone’s gaze lingered a second too long.

“…Is that…?” The words weren’t teasing. Just curious.

Clara froze. Her shoulders stiffened, and without thinking she pulled the jacket closer around herself, fingers curling into the fabric. Heat rushed up her neck, her cheeks warming instantly.

“I-i— um—”

Her mouth opened, closed. She swallowed.

“I-it’s just— I mean—”

The words tangled, tripping over each other before they could escape properly. She could hear it herself, how flustered she sounded, and that only made it worse. A soft laugh came from nearby. Not sharp. Not mocking. Just amused, gentle.

“Relax,” someone said, smiling. “We’re just surprised.”

Clara’s face burned brighter.

“…It’s cold.”

The words came out quick, final, like a door snapping shut. She didn’t elaborate. Didn’t explain. Didn’t look up. A couple of glances passed between her teammates. Someone chuckled again, lighter this time, and then the moment moved on, as moments always did. Clara turned slightly away, tugging the sleeves down over her hands, trying very hard not to smile at nothing.

The hotel room was quiet.

Jonas closed the door behind him and stood there for a second longer than necessary, listening to the hum of the air conditioning, the distant noise of the city outside. He rolled his shoulders once and moved toward the rack where his race suit hung. He unzipped it, peeled it off with familiar motions, and hung it carefully in its place. That was when he noticed the sleeve. The crease was small. Easy to miss. A faint line where fabric had been smoothed by someone else’s hand.

His fingers paused mid-air. He stared at it for a moment, then reached out, brushing the fabric lightly. The instinct to fix it rose immediately, and then stopped. He left it exactly as it was. Jonas stepped back, exhaled, and sat down on the edge of the bed. The room felt larger than it had a few hours ago. Quieter. His phone rested on the table within arm’s reach. He didn’t pick it up. Not yet.

Clara closed her door softly and leaned back against it, eyes closed.

Only then did she let herself breathe. The jacket slipped from her shoulders slowly, carefully, like it might disappear if she moved too fast. She held it in both hands, thumbs pressing into the fabric absentmindedly. For a second, she hesitated. Then, almost without realizing what she was doing, she lifted the collar toward her face and breathed in. The scent was faint. Clean. Familiar in a way she couldn’t quite place. Her lips curved upward. A small giggle escaped before she could stop it.

“…Idiot,” she murmured, the word soft, fond, directionless.

She folded the jacket once, precise and neat. Unfolded it again. Tried folding it differently, then gave up entirely. In the end, she draped it over the back of the chair by the window, where it caught the light from the street below. Present.

The message sat unsent for longer than Clara cared to admit. She typed. Deleted. Typed again. Stared at the screen like it might judge her. It was late. Late enough that the city outside her window had quieted into something softer, lights blurred by distance and glass. She sat cross-legged on the bed, phone balanced in her hands, heart beating just a little too fast.

She didn’t want to overthink it. But she already was. Finally, she pressed send.

Hope you got back okay.

The phone was suddenly very heavy. Jonas saw the notification a minute later. He had been lying back on the bed, one arm over his eyes, when the screen lit up beside him. He stared at it for a moment, then rolled onto his side and picked it up. He read the message once. Then again. A small smile tugged at his mouth before he could stop it. He waited a second. Just one. Then typed back.

Yeah. I did.

You?

He sent it before he could think better of it.

Clara watched the reply appear and felt her chest tighten in a way that was both unfamiliar and oddly comforting. She smiled at the screen. Typed. Stopped. Her thumb hovered, indecisive. She glanced at the jacket by the chair, then back at the phone. Before she could lose her nerve, she typed again.

Can I call you?

The message sent itself before she could overthink it.

Jonas froze. He staring hard at the screen, heart skipping once, then twice. His mind filled with noise immediately, thoughts colliding and overlapping. Call. A real call. Not text. Not distance. His throat felt suddenly dry.

What was he supposed to say?

He sat up, ran a hand through his hair, then stopped, hand suspended mid-air like that alone might give him answers. The phone buzzed again. Incoming call. Jonas inhaled sharply. “Okay,” he muttered to no one, then answered before he could talk himself out of it.

“Hey,” he said, voice quieter than usual.

There was a pause on the other end. Clara held the phone with both hands, lying on her side, staring at the ceiling like it might fall in on her. Her face was warm. Her heart felt like it was trying to climb out of her chest.

“H-hi,” she said, the word coming out softer than she intended.

Silence settled between them, not uncomfortable, just… new.

Jonas cleared his throat, then laughed quietly under his breath. “Uh. Hi.”

She smiled despite herself. They didn’t rush to fill the space. They didn’t need to. The sound of breathing, the faint hum of distant traffic, the knowledge that the other person was there, it was enough for the moment.

Clara shifted slightly on the bed, tucking the phone closer to her ear. “I was worried it might be too late.”

“It’s okay,” Jonas said. “I wasn’t asleep.”

He hesitated, then added, “I’m glad you called.”

Her cheeks warmed again.

“Me too,” she said, and then, flustered by her own honesty, laughed softly. “I mean— I just— yeah.”

Jonas smiled, pressing his lips together to keep it contained. They talked about small things. Nothing important. The way the day had stretched longer than expected. How strange it felt when everything finally went quiet. The air in Suzuka at night, cool and still.

Sometimes there were pauses. Long ones. Neither of them rushed to break them.

Jonas lay back again, staring at the ceiling, phone tucked between his shoulder and ear. Clara traced patterns into the blanket with her free hand, listening to the sound of his voice like it was something fragile. When one of them laughed, the other followed, softer, like an echo. Neither mentioned the past. Neither tried to define what this was. The call stretched on, gentle and unhurried, until the night outside had fully settled.

They were not together. But they weren’t pretending anymore either. And for now, that was enough.