ACROSS THE FINISH LINE [Complete & Revised]

Chapter 7: Between the Lines

The champagne from Barcelona had barely dried before the narrative shifted.

Jean-Luc's victory wasn't just a win for FalconTech—it was a statement. A power move. For the first time this season, Ferrari wasn't leading the championship. And with Luca coming in second, the media—vultures that they were—began circling with new angles.

Falcon Takes Flight. Rival Engineers Hearts and Team Allegiances Collide.
Reyes: The Woman Between Champions.

Elena hated every word of it.

She hadn't asked to be the center of attention. She hadn't asked for every strategic call, every second of pit lane footage, to be dissected like a relationship autopsy.

She just wanted to do her job.

And maybe—just maybe—find out what it meant to love someone without losing herself in the process.

FalconTech HQ – Week Between Races

The office smelled like solder, printer ink, and anticipation. Elena sat in the telemetry room with her hair tied up in a messy bun, eyes fixed on the monitor. The Barcelona data was glowing on the screen in layers of colored spikes and clean lines.

Jean-Luc's performance had been near-flawless. His overtake on lap 16 was textbook. A thing of beauty.

But beneath the pride, something gnawed at her.

Because when she'd called the overtake strategy, she knew it would work.

She also knew it would cost Luca the race.

That's what made her a good engineer—cold logic when it mattered.

But the part of her that still remembered Luca's smile in the quiet of that Barcelona café?

That part ached.

"Elena?" Jasmin poked her head in. "Team meeting in five."

Elena nodded and gathered her things. She didn't notice the phone buzz until she stood up.

Luca: Dinner tonight? I promise no churros this time. Just you and me. And silence if you want it.

She stared at it for a long beat.

Then typed back:

Elena: Yes. But I choose the silence.

Later That Evening – Luca's Apartment, Barcelona

Luca's place was nothing like Elena imagined. Minimalist. Clean. Sparse on personal touches, but with a warmth that felt distinctly him—leather-bound notebooks stacked beside a coffee table, vinyl records by the window, a faded photo of his mother on the shelf.

He watched her take it all in from the kitchen, where he was stirring a pot of pasta like a man who'd learned to fend for himself during lonely off-seasons.

"You cook now?" she asked, leaning against the counter.

He grinned. "Don't sound so shocked."

"I just assumed you lived on hotel room service and espresso."

"Only on race weeks."

They sat on the couch with plates balanced on their knees, forks twirling, conversation slow but easy.

"You could've won Barcelona," she said, after a while.

Luca looked at her, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Could've. Didn't. You called a brilliant race."

"I called it for Jean-Luc."

"And that's your job. You don't owe me wins."

Her fork paused. "It still felt like betrayal."