Avery's POV

Race morning started with my alarm and a text from Cameron.

Don't let him forget the PeakForm bottle on his way to driver intros 😅

I smiled at the ceiling for exactly half a second before the nerves kicked back in.

Race day.

PeakForm logo on the hood for the first time. Cameras. Live broadcast. Every bad decision I'd ever made suddenly felt minor compared to the fact that the boy I'd once watched run late models under busted lights now had our brand plastered across his car at a track that actually sold out grandstands. No pressure.

I pulled on my navy PeakForm polo, black jeans, low-heeled boots I could move in, and the credential lanyard that had started to feel like a collar. Ponytail, light makeup, blazer over my arm, tablet in my tote.

The hotel elevator was full of stubble and crew shirts. Two guys in matching Kent polos nodded at me.

"Morning, Avery," one of them said.

"Morning," I replied, masking the fact that my stomach was already auditioning for a gymnastics team. "Ready to make our brand look good?"

They laughed like I was joking. I wasn't sure I was.

The infield was already buzzing by the time we got to the track. Haulers. Golf carts. The smell of rubber and fryer oil and sunscreen. PeakForm banners had multiplied overnight; on the midway, on the hospitality tent, on a pop-up hydration station where interns were stacking HYDRATE+ samples in neat pyramids.

Cameron found me at the base of the hospitality steps, coffee in one hand, headset in the other.
"Morning, boss," he said.

"Don't call me that," I said automatically.

He smirked. "Nervous?"

"I prefer the term 'appropriately aware of high-stakes brand integration,'" I said.

"So yes," he translated.

I rolled my eyes but didn't deny it.

We ran through the day like it was a mission brief. Garage stop. Grid walk. Hospitality appearances. In-race social content. Post-race debrief.

"And you're okay riding down to the grid with Kent?" he asked. "We'll take the execs on the golf carts; you can be our embedded observer."

Embedded observer. Right.

"Yeah," I said. "I'm good."

Which was a lie, obviously, but I was getting very good at those lately.

The PeakForm car gleamed under the garage lights. It had been cleaned and buffed overnight, removing the scuffed rubber on the quarter panels from practice.

Nick stood with Reid and Marshall by the nose of the car, firesuit half-zipped, PeakForm logo clean across his torso for now. His hair was damp and a PeakForm bottle dangled from his fingers. He looked...settled.

I hated that I knew the difference.

"Walk me through the first stage again," he was saying when I stepped closer. "If we get an early caution, you still want to stay out and keep position?"

"Depends how early," Reid replied. "If it's lap ten, we stay. If it's twenty-five or later, we pit with the pack. We don't need to be heroes on the first run. Long game."

"Copy that," Nick said. "Logan?"

Logan was perched on a tire, radio balanced on his knee. "Same as we talked last night," he said. "If it gets stupid, I'm bringing you down. Don't fight me on it."

Nick saluted him lazily. "Yes, mom."

"Keep it up, I'll make you listen to your own scanner audio on the flight home," Logan shot back.

"That's cruel and unusual punishment," Nick muttered.

Reid noticed me first. "Avery," he said, nodding. "You ready to go be important?"

"Already there," I said, ignoring the way my pulse fluttered when Nick's gaze snapped to mine.

"Hey," he said.

It was ridiculous how much weight he could put into one syllable.

"Hey," I echoed, proud that my voice didn't shake.

"See, I got my bottle" he grinned, holding the new custom printed drink bottle with the PeakForm logo arched on one side and the number 28 with his signature underneath on the other.

"I'm reserving judgment until you sip from it when the cameras are pointed at you," I said.

He grinned, quick and crooked. "Challenge accepted."

"Five to grid," a NASCAR official called, clipboard in hand.

Everything snapped into motion. The car rolled out. Crew guys pushed. Radios crackled. The crowd roar from the grandstands got louder with every row we passed.

I fell into step beside Cameron and a couple of PeakForm execs, my badge flashing at the rope line. My job, officially, was to point out assets and explain things: the pit box, the tire stacks, which cameras were most important.

My actual brain activity was about 70% don't throw up, 30% don't stare.

On the grid, the PeakForm car took its place in P12. The paint gleamed under the sun, teal nose, charcoal base, clean logo across the hood that some graphic designer in an office had fretted about for hours.

It looked right. That terrified me.

Nick climbed up to the door, one foot on the side skirt, and peeled the top half of his firesuit down for air while they adjusted something inside. Under-sleeves from his cool shirt clung to his arms, PeakForm patch on his shoulder.

He caught me watching and, for a second, it was just us again.

"Still acceptable?" he asked with a grin.

"Looks good," I said. "Try not to damage it."

"I'll do my best," he said solemnly.

"Nicky!"

I turned to see Jordyn coming through the crowd, glossy hair perfect, monster-branded outfit probably paid for by at least three different companies. She slipped past a cameraman with ease and landed at Nick's side, hand going automatically to his bicep.

"There you are," she said. "I was starting to think you were avoiding me."

Nick's jaw ticked. "Just doing the job," he said lightly.

"Mm-hmm." Her gaze flicked to me, bright and assessing. "Hi, Avery. Ready to see our boy in his element?"

My stomach flipped. He's not my anything, I wanted to say.

Instead, I summoned my best corporate smile.

"We're excited to see PeakForm on track," I said.

Clean. Non-personal. A corporate bot could've delivered that line.

Jordyn beamed. "Same," she said. "Oh! We're doing a little pre-race reel in a minute. 'Grid walk with Jordyn' type thing. Maybe you can pop in for a 'brand brain' cameo?"

I opened my mouth, already reaching for a polite excuse, when a NASCAR official appeared at Nick's elbow.

"Two minutes to invocation," he said. "We need you on the line, Hartley."

"Copy," Nick said, voice shifting instantly into business mode.

He handed his water bottle to a crew guy and dropped down, taking his place with the other crew members near the front of the car.

Jordyn leaned in, up on her toes. "Give me a kiss for luck," she said, loud enough for at least one nearby phone to catch it.

He hesitated.

I saw it. The brief flicker of his eyes, the little stutter in his body language.

Then he brushed a quick kiss against her temple instead of her mouth, one hand on her shoulder like he was redirecting, not leaning in.

Jordyn's smile tightened for a breath before she smoothed it out.

I looked away because I had to. Because I was here for a brand, not a live-action reminder of every decision we'd ever made at eighteen.

The prayer was said. The anthem played. The command was given. Engines fired.

The sound rolled straight through my chest and rearranged my organs.

I made sure the execs were guided to their front-row hospitality seats, double-checked that Marina had the content team in position, then finally let myself sink into an empty chair at the back of the PeakForm suite.

Headset on. Scanner app open. Timing and scoring up on my tablet.

Work mode.

The pace laps always felt like a held breath. Cars snaked around the track under the pace car, colors blurring together. The PeakForm teal was easy to find; my eyes went straight to it every time.

"Radio check, Hartley," Reid's voice crackled in my ears.

"Loud and clear," Nick said. He always sounded different on the radio; flatter, more controlled. You could hear the edges if you knew where to listen.

"Logan?"

"Got you both," Logan replied. "Gonna be a long one, kids. Let's just be smart. No hero moves lap one."

"Ten-four," Nick said. "I'll try to control my impulses."

I smiled despite myself.

Green.

The field compressed. The engines roared, and they were off.

The first run went...fine.

Which, in racing, meant nothing terrible happened.

Nick held position around twelfth. The car was a tick tight in the center of the corner, just like it had been in practice, but he managed the traffic, picked off a couple spots on long green-flag cycles.

"Balance is okay," he reported. "Little snug in three and four when I'm in dirty air. Front doesn't want to commit."

"Copy," Reid said. "We'll take half a round out at the stop, maybe a pound out of the right rear. You're doing good. Just keep your temps under control."

Cameron leaned over from the row ahead. "He sounds calm," he murmured.

"This is calm," I said. "You should hear him when he feels like the car is actually doing what he wants."

They pitted under green at lap 40. The crew hit their marks; fuel, four tires, adjustment wrench flashing at the rear window. PeakForm on the pit sign. PeakForm on the suits. PeakForm bottle passing through the window net.

I forced myself to see it like a marketer: cohesive branding, strong visual presence, lots of broadcast potential.

Under that, my heart was chewing through my ribs.

"Feels a little freer," Nick said once they cycled back out. "Turn's better. Can live with this."

"Attaboy," Logan said. "Nice corner exit there. Get that run, use it off two."

He picked off another handful of spots before the stage end, crossing the line P7.

"Stage one, that's points," Reid said. "Nice job."

The PeakForm exec at the front of the suite clapped, genuinely delighted. "Top ten!" he said to no one in particular. "That's...good, right? That's good?"

"Yes," I said, allowing myself a quick, real smile. "That's very good."

My knee still bounced through the whole pit stop.

Stage two got messier.

A spin mid-pack brought out a yellow just as green-flag stops were starting. Half the field was trapped a lap down by the time NASCAR sorted it.

They got lucky. Barely.

"Free pass goes to the 28," the official voice said in my headset.

I exhaled so hard the guy next to me glanced over.

"Everything okay?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said. "Just...first-race nerves."

He smiled, oblivious. "Well, your boy's doing great out there."

Your boy.

On track, the restart was chaos. Three-wide through one and two. Somebody got loose under somebody else and suddenly there was smoke, a car snapping sideways, a tangle starting mid-straightaway.

"Wreck, wreck, stay high, stay high, stay high," Logan barked. "Back it down, back it down, you're clear, you're clear, good job, buddy."

I watched the teal nose snake through the mess, missing a spinning car by what felt like inches.
My fingers dug into the armrests so hard they ached.

"Everybody okay?" Nick asked, voice tight.

"Looks like it," Logan said. "Nice job there. I'll buy you a beer for that one."

"You owe me a six-pack," Nick muttered.

I realized I hadn't breathed for an entire lap.
Cameron looked back at me with raised eyebrows. I forced my hands to unclench.

"This is...normal," I said. "All part of the show."

Inside, my seventeen-year-old heart was crouched in the truck bed again, watching and praying.

Under the next caution, they stayed out for track position.

Reid rolled the dice.

"Gonna be a few laps on older tires," he said. "You good?"

"I'm good," Nick said. "We'll just tuck in and hold on."

"Famous last words," Logan muttered.

They held...mostly.

Nick fought like hell, elbows out, making the car as wide as possible while fresher tires swarmed behind him. He lost a couple spots, then stabilized around P9.

Every time another car got a run on him, my whole body leaned instinctively, like I could change his line with pure stress.

"Quit driving it from up here," Marina hissed in my ear at one point, making me jump. "You're gonna break the armrest."

"I hate this," I whispered back.

"You love this," she said. "You just don't know it yet."

Stage two ended with him in P8, more points on the board, more PeakForm mentions from the booth.

"He's overperforming that car," one of the commentators said during a replay. "That's a solid run for this team. New sponsor on board with PeakForm this weekend. They gotta be happy with that return."

My phone buzzed nonstop.

Screenshots. Social tags. A text from someone in the home office:

The teal pops so good on broadcast 🔥🔥🔥

I filed it away for later. That was future-Avery's work.

Current-Avery could barely remember how to inhale.

The final stage was...the longest laps of my life.

They hit the pit window with about fifty-five to go, taking four tires and fuel under green. When the cycle shook out, Nick was P5 with a long run ahead of him and two of the big-money teams breathing down his neck.

"Okay," Reid said. "This is it. Save your stuff early. You'll get a shot at them again. We don't need to burn the right rear now."

"I know," Nick said, and I could hear the tightness he was fighting in that I know.

"Just...tell me we're good on fuel."

"We're good on fuel unless this turns into some weird overtime circus," Reid said. "Run your race."

"Ten-four," Nick replied.

Lap count ticked down.

Forty to go.
Thirty-five.
Thirty.

Every time the ticker updated and the PeakForm car was still in the top five, my chest clenched. It was like watching a Jenga tower while some invisible hand kept tugging pieces out.

Then, with twenty to go, the caution came. Of course it did.

"I swear to God," I muttered.

Debris on the backstretch. Field bunched back up. Four-lap-old tires suddenly ancient compared to the guys who'd stayed out gambling for a yellow.

Pit road opened.

Half the field dove in.
Half stayed out.

Our box went quiet while Reid did math at the speed of light.

Finally: "We're staying," he said. "Track position. If this goes green to the end, tires are gonna equalize. If it doesn't, we're back in the same mess anyway. You got this?"

"My favorite words," Nick said. "Let's do it."

They lined up P3 for the restart. I could feel my pulse in my gums.

Engines revved. Pace car peeled off.

"Ready...green green green," Logan called.

Chaos.

Two lanes went three-wide before the start-finish line, everybody jostling, trying to steal clean air. Nick held his line up top, fending off the guy behind him while leaning on the right rear of the car in second.

"Still there. Still there. You're clear off. Nice," Logan said, words clipped fast. "Back bumper, quarter, door, still there..."

For three laps, I forgot how to be a human and just became...raw nerve.

The PeakForm car flirted with P2, lost it, gained it again. The guy on fresh tires behind him dive bombed once; Nick tucked in, crossed him over, took the spot back off four.

The suite actually cheered.

I flinched like they'd hit me.

"P3," Reid said. "Nice work. Keep your eyes forward. Fifteen to go."

Fifteen.
Fourteen.
Thirteen.

The laps blurred into a steady, painful drumbeat.
At ten to go, the leaders checked out a bit, but no one caught him either. The gap back to P4 stabilized. The car looked rock solid.

We were...actually going to pull this off.

Top three. First race with the brand. First go at this weird, tangled second chance at...whatever we were.

My vision blurred for a second and I realized my eyes were wet.

I wiped them on the back of my hand like a teenage girl trying not to cry at prom.

"Five to go," Logan said calmly. "Just nice and smooth. No reason to get greedy now. You're doing great."

"PeakForm car looking stout out there today," the commentator said over the PA. "This 28 team really stepping up with this new partnership."

I watched the teal nose hit its marks lap after lap.
Four to go.

Three.

White flag.

"Nice and clean here," Reid said quietly. "You got this. One more good lap."

Nick's voice came back, low. "Copy.Let's bring it home."

He did.
P3.
Checkered.

The suite erupted. Executives high-fived. Someone popped a bottle of the fancy sparkling stuff they'd reserved in case of a win. A PeakForm intern actually wiped away a tear.

I just sat there, headset slightly askew, heart pounding so hard it felt like I'd run the race myself.

"P3, baby," Logan yelled into the radio. "Hell of a drive, Hartley."

"Nice work, man," Reid said. "That's a statement. That's how you show up with new colors."

Nick was quiet for a second.

Then: "Thanks, guys," he said, voice rough. "Appreciate you. Car was a rocket. Let's go see what's left of the right front."

I laughed, borderline hysterical.

Cameron turned in his seat. His eyes were bright. "You hearing this?" he asked. "This is...this is gold."

"I'm hearing it," I said. "I'm also never complaining about my job being stressful again because this is...not normal."

"Welcome to the show," he grinned.

Victory Lane, whatever they called the little corner of pit road where the top three did their interviews was a blur of logos and microphones and bright lights.

We watched on the suite TV as Nick climbed out of the car, helmet under his arm, hair damp, PeakForm logo dead center in frame.

The reporter shoved a mic in his face.

"Nick, first race with PeakForm on the car, you bring it home P3. Walk us through your day."

He took a breath. Looked straight into the camera for a second, laser-focused.

"Yeah, first of all, just...really proud of this whole Kent Motorsports group," he said. "We unloaded good, tuned on it all weekend, and this PeakForm 28 was just solid. We're not the biggest team out here, but we've got heart and we've got the right people. Can't thank PeakForm enough for taking a chance on us. Hopefully this is the first of many good runs with them on the hood."

Textbook. Honest. Exactly what I'd written a hundred versions of in decks and emails. It still knocked something loose in my chest to hear him say it with sweat on his neck and tire dust on his firesuit.

"Talk us through that last restart," the reporter pressed. "You stayed out on older tires, had some hungry guys behind you..."

"Yeah, I, uh...my crew chief made the call there," Nick said, half laughing. "I just try to point it in the right direction. But seriously, we knew track position was gonna matter more than fresh rubber there. Logan, my spotter kept me calm, talked me through the mess, and once we got strung out a little, I could just...go. Wish we had a little more for those other two, but for day one with this deal? I'll absolutely take it."

"Anyone watching at home you want to shout out?"

That old question.

Once, his answer had been automatic: parents, me, our town.

Now, there was a tiny, almost imperceptible pause.

"Yeah, uh...mom and dad, obviously," he said. "Everybody back at the shop who busted their butts to get this thing ready. And, uh..." his gaze flicked up, toward the suites, like he could see straight into ours through the tinted glass, "everyone at PeakForm for believing in a scrappy little program like ours. We won't let you down."

The camera angle changed and Jordyn slid into frame at the edge, slipping an arm around his waist for the b-roll.

He didn't shrug her off. He also didn't lean in.

Somewhere between those two facts, my carefully constructed emotional distance cracked another inch.

By the time the celebration circuit wound down, the suite had emptied of guests, leaving just staff, Marina, and me.

I gathered my bag, my tablet, my scattered dignity, and followed Cameron down to the ground level for the debrief with Kent.

The garage had that post-race hangover feel; loud but thinner, like everyone was half an inch shorter after three hours of adrenaline and fuel strategy.

Nick was already half out of his suit again, cool shirt sticking to his back, hair damp, the collar crooked.

Reid stood with a clipboard, Logan with his ever-present headset, Marshall with his arms folded, the faintest smile in his beard.

"Just got tight on exit when I tried to arc it wider," Nick was saying. "Didn't want to burn the right rear completely and be a sitting duck the last three laps."

"You did fine," Reid said. "That was best-case scenario with the call we made. We had nothing to lose and everything to gain. You brought it back in one piece with a top three. Nobody's mad at that."

"We got some good data on long-run pace too," Logan added. "You were hanging with teams that out-budget us five to one."

Nick caught sight of us then. The internal debrief rhythm stuttered.

Cameron stepped forward, hand out. "Hell of a show, man," he said. "You made us look very smart in the boardroom."

Nick shook his hand, a real grin breaking through the exhaustion. "Happy to help your Q4 narrative," he said.

"Seriously," Cameron said. "This is exactly what we hoped for. Strong run, clean car, good story. You're already all over socials. The 'scrappy underdog' thing plays."

"Scrappy is a nice way of saying 'our hauler is held together with zip ties,'" Nick said.

"Don't knock zip ties," Marshall put in dryly. "They build championships with those."

There was a rustle as someone pushed through the little circle.

Jordyn.

She slid in at his side like she'd been there the whole time, arm looping easily through his.

"There he is," she said. "Third place and still humble. Annoying, honestly."

Nick's shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly under her hand.

I watched it. Filed it away.

"You were great," she said. "We got so much content. The fans eating up PeakForm Hartley."

"Catchy," Nick said, voice flattening just a fraction. "Maybe don't make that a hashtag."

"Too late," Marina murmured under her breath. I pretended not to hear her.

Nick's gaze slid to mine over Jordyn's shoulder.
For a second, everything else blurred.

"You did good," I said, because that was the only sentence my brain could form that didn't sound like I'd crawled back into his truck bed.

One corner of his mouth ticked up. "You gonna upgrade me from 'fine' in your report?" he asked.

I rolled my eyes, but it came out softer than I meant it to. "We'll see what the numbers say."

"That's her version of a standing ovation," Logan told him.

I elbowed him lightly, more grateful than annoyed.

"Seriously," I said, looking at the little cluster of Kent shirts and PeakForm hats and grease-streaked smiles. "Thank you. For all of it. You made us look...very smart for saying yes."

Marshall nodded once. "We just did what we do," he said. "You give the kid a good car, he'll surprise you."

My chest did that tight, sharp ache thing again.

Kid.

Nick had stopped being "a kid" a long time ago.
But in this garage, with sweat on his face and his name on the door, I could still see the seventeen-year-old under the fluorescent lights at the county track, eyes too bright, heart too big.

Now there was a PeakForm decal instead of blank quarter panels.

Now I was here in a blazer instead of a hoodie.

Progress, my career brain whispered.

Collision course, something deeper countered.

Cameron clapped Nick on the shoulder. "Go do your media," he said. "We'll let you get out of here eventually. Just know we're thrilled. This is the beginning of something big."

Nick's gaze caught mine one more time.

"Guess we didn't bet the brand on a guy who can't hold a line," he said quietly.

I met his eyes.

"No," I said. "We really didn't."

Jordyn tugged him away toward another camera.
I watched them go, every cell in my body buzzing with a cocktail of pride, relief, jealousy, and an ache so old it had learned new shapes.

PeakForm's first race was a success. My job was secure. My bosses were happy.

The story, on paper, was perfect.

But as I followed Cameron out of the garage, scanner still buzzing faintly in my hand, one thought sat stubborn and solid in the center of my chest:

We'd always said we'd meet again at a bigger track, with real sponsors and bright lights.
We just never planned for the part where I'd be the one putting my logo on the hood while someone else stood beside him on pit road.

The garage was finally starting to empty by the time I made it to the parking lot.

Not completely. Never completely. There were still golf carts zipping past, crew guys loading the last of the equipment, sponsor reps doing the exhausted post-event shuffle with lanyards around their necks and their smiles turned off.

My feet hurt. My brain hurt. And I was ninety percent sure my soul had left my body somewhere around lap one hundred and never fully returned.

PeakForm's first race with Nick had gone well. Better than well, actually. Strong run, good content, brand reps happy, social numbers already climbing. The kind of day I should've been able to file neatly under successful and move on from.

Instead, I felt scraped out.

Too many close moments. Too many things I almost said.Too much of him everywhere I turned.

I hit the unlock button on my rental and was halfway there when I saw it.

A truck two rows over. Dusty black. Nothing special really.

Except on the passenger side of the windshield, someone had drawn a heart in the film of pollen and grime with one fingertip. Quick. Thoughtless. The kind of absent little doodle somebody makes while waiting for the engine to warm up or the person inside the gas station to come back out.

And in the middle of that dumb heart, written in the same finger-dragged line:

A + N

My whole body stopped. Not because it actually said that. It didn't. The letters were different. Probably initials for somebody else entirely. A joke, maybe. A girl in the passenger seat with time to kill. A guy being stupid in a parking lot.
It didn't matter, because for one second, all I could see was Nick's old truck.

Bench seat. Fogged windows. My finger drawing hearts in the condensation while he laughed at me and told me I was "marking up his property."
The big block letters I'd written once across the dashboard in Sharpie:

A + N
4-ever

Like the future was a thing you could claim if you wanted it hard enough.

The parking lot disappeared, and suddenly I was seventeen again.

Flashback

The windows were so fogged you couldn't see outside.

Which, frankly, was kind of the point.

Nick's truck was parked in its usual spot in old Miller's Field. Out here, past the last streetlight, the world blurred into dark and crickets and the low hum of someone's far-off bass.

We were half-tangled in the bench seat, my back against the passenger door, his head on my shoulder, hand wedged between my knees. The radio played just loud enough that we could hear the lyrics, soft and twangy, about leaving town and holding on.

His hand slid warm and solid on my thigh, thumb drawing lazy circles through a rip in my jeans. Every time his thumb caught my skin, my brain shorted out a little bit.

I tipped my head back against the cold glass and watched my breath bloom over it in a soft white patch.

"You know," I said, voice a little breathless from where his mouth had been on my neck thirty seconds ago, "there's probably a rule somewhere about how much condensation two people are allowed to generate in a single vehicle."

Nick grinned, tilted toward me, kiss-drunk and smug.

"Is that in the driver's handbook?" he asked. "Because I definitely skipped that chapter."

"You skipped a lot of chapters," I said. "Like 'proper use of blinkers' and 'respect for speed limits.'"

He nuzzled behind my ear, lips brushing my skin.

"Speed limits are suggestions," he murmured.

"Mmhm," I said, even as my hand slid up into his hair, tugging just enough to make him suck in a breath.

He pulled back an inch, eyes dark and soft in the dim glow from the dashboard.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi," I answered, smiling in spite of myself.

He looked so annoyingly good in that stupid worn out tee, curls slightly damp from his post-race dirt track rinse, jaw still rough with the start of stubble he swore he was "growing out." His cheeks were pink from the cold air he'd dragged in when he first opened the door; his lips were pink from me.

"I like you like this," he said suddenly.

"Like what?" I asked.

He shrugged, a little shy. "In my truck. Hair messy. Hoodie swallowing you. Lip gloss all over my face."

I snorted. "You kissed me."

"Yeah," he said. "Best decision I made all night."

Something warm fuzzy and a little terrifying. curled under my ribs,

To cover it, I dragged my fingertip through the fogged glass beside my head, carving a crooked heart. On impulse, I added an A inside it.

Nick watched, amused.

"What're you doing, Picasso?" he asked.

"Upgrading your interior," I said primly.

I added a plus sign, then an N.
A + N

He leaned closer to read it, breath feathering over my knuckles.

"Cute," he said softly. "Very locker-door of you."

I rolled my eyes, but my hand didn't stop. The tip of my finger traced 4-ever underneath, the letters a little lopsided because my hands shook more than I wanted to admit.

A + N
4-ever

For a second, the truck felt too small to hold all the feelings that sentence stirred up. I pulled my hand back quickly, suddenly self-conscious.

"Okay, that was cheesy," I said. "Whatever. It'll disappear in, like, two minutes."

His hand caught mine before I could tuck it back into my sleeve.

"Aves," he said.

I forced myself to look at him. He was studying the fogged glass like it was a contract, not a doodle. His thumb brushed over the inside of my wrist, where my pulse was going absolutely feral.

"You really think so?" he asked quietly.

I blinked. "Think what?"

"That it's a 'whatever,'" he said. "Because it doesn't feel like a 'whatever.' Not from where I'm sitting."

My mouth went dry.

"I mean," I said, aiming for casual and landing somewhere around "girls in YA novels about to make very serious declarations, I'm not, like, etching it in stone or anything."

He turned back to me, eyes soft, no trace of his usual joking.

"I kind of am," he said.

My heart did a weird, swooping thing.

I drew another heart. Then another. By the third one he was laughing.

"You know I've got to drive this thing home, right?"

I turned then, eyebrow up. "And?"

"And I'm not sure the guys at school need to roll up to the parking lot and see that I let my girlfriend turn my windshield into a Valentine's Day crime scene."

I mock gasped, hand to my chest. "Let? Nicholas Hartley, I do not require your permission to improve this vehicle."

"There it is," he said, grinning.

"There what is?"

"The dictatorship."

I pointed my finger at him, then turned back to the glass and drew one giant heart right in front of his line of sight.

"Aves."

"What?" I said, not sorry at all. "Now they'll all know you're loved."

I caught him looking and smiled.

"What?"

He shook his head once. "Nothing."

"That's never true."

Then I leaned over and kissed him because I could.

He smiled into it before kissing me back, warm and easy and already halfway laughing, and when I pulled away I shot him a smug grin.

"See?" I said. "Improved."

He looked back at the windshield. At the big dumb heart blocking half the field. Then he reached up with his own finger and, wrote A + N right through the middle of it.

"Yeah. Shame it's gonna disappear." He said.

I leaned forward and grabbed the Sharpie out of the glove box. The silver one I was always stealing for notes and lists and whatever else I thought needed organizing, and before he could stop me, I bent over the dashboard and wrote, in dramatic block letters:

A + N
4-ever

He stared, then barked out a laugh. "Absolutely not."

I capped the marker with a little satisfied click. "Absolutely yes."

"That's never coming off."

I settled back into the seat like a queen admiring her work. "Good. That's kinda the point."

"You're insane."

I grinned. "You love me."

"Yeah," he said, quiet as breathing. "I do."

I leaned over then and tucked myself against his side, cheek on his shoulder, his arm around me without thought because that was just where I fit.

We sat there for a while after that. Radio low. Heater rattling. Fog creeping back around the edges of the glass every time the truck cooled faster than the vents could fight it.

"This feels...precious. And fragile. And like if I look at it too hard, the universe will notice and ask what makes me think I deserve it."

"Aves," he said, voice breaking. "You deserve...everything. You know that, right?"

I shook my head, eyes burning.

"I know you," I said. "And that's already kind of a lot."

He leaned in, forehead pressing to mine, noses brushing, his breath warm and sweet with the Dr. Pepper we'd split earlier.

"Say it again," he whispered.

"I know you?" I teased, trying to swallow the tremor in my voice.

"Avery," he said, exasperated and soft all at once.

I smiled, closed my eyes, and let myself fall.

"I love you," I repeated. "There. Printed on your foggy windshield and everything."

He made a sound that was half laugh, half something else entirely, and kissed me.

This kiss was different. Still messy, still teenage and a little awkward, but threaded with something deeper.

His fingers slid into my hair; my free hand fisted in the front of his shirt like I was physically anchoring him to the seat.

Outside, the fog on the glass thickened, our little heart getting fuzzier but still visible, the letters blurring together.

At some point, his hand slid up my spine under my hoodie, and I shivered, not from cold.

Pulling back just enough to breathe, he glanced down at the dash..

"You know that's going to be there forever right?" he said.

"Good," I said, a little breathless. "Consider it a permanent donation to the pre-owned truck aesthetic."

He huffed out a laugh that was way too fond for someone mocking my graffiti.

"A + N 4-ever," he read softly, thumb tracing idle patterns at my hip. "That's a big promise, Aves."

"So's 'I love you,'" I countered.

He studied me for a long moment, then nodded like he'd just agreed to terms on a deal only we understood.

"Then let's mean both," he said.

I leaned my head on his shoulder, watching the heart blur and sharpen with each breath.

"Okay," I whispered. "Deal."

End flashback

The memory hit so hard I actually had to grab the strap of my bag tighter just to keep standing still.

Around me, the real world rushed back in pieces. A hauler engine turning over. Somebody calling for someone else. The chirp of my rental unlocking again because I'd apparently hit the button twice.

I swallowed hard and looked back at the truck.
The heart was still there. The wrong initials. The wrong time. The wrong life.

But for one sharp, cruel second, it had felt like the universe reached into my chest and squeezed.

I laughed once under my breath, humorless and a little wrecked.

"Cool," I muttered to absolutely no one. "That's fine."

It was not fine because now I could see him too clearly: older now, taller, one hand on the wheel, a life I hadn't been there to watch gather around him, and still, under all of that, the same boy who let me cover his truck in stupid hearts like he thought forever was something we could keep if we were soft enough with it.

I forced myself to keep walking. One foot. Then the next.

My rental was three spaces away. My hotel was ten minutes away.

My life was in Charlotte, not Red Creek, South Carolina, not Boston, not one fogged-up windshield in the middle of nowhere with a radio song humming low enough to feel like a secret.

I got the door open and slid into the driver's seat, dropping my bag into the passenger side.

The windshield in front of me was clean. Clear. Nothing written there. Still, before I started the engine, my hand lifted on instinct, fingertip ghosting over the glass.

Just once. A tiny heart. Barely there.

I stared at it for half a second, then scrubbed it away with the heel of my hand so hard it squeaked.

"Get it together, Avery," I whispered.

But the problem wasn't the heart. It was that seeing one for half a second had reminded me how little it takes to bring him back.

Not the version of Nick on the deck. Not the polished one in the sponsor firesuit. Not the man everybody else sees now.

Just mine. Or the one who used to be, and that version of him was getting harder and harder to keep in the past where I'd put him.

I started the car and pulled out of the lot before I could do anything dramatic, like cry or text him or drive in the wrong direction just to prove to myself I still knew the back roads.

In the rearview mirror, the parking rows got smaller. The truck with the heart disappeared. The track lights blurred. The whole night started to recede. But the ache didn't. It came with me all the way back to the hotel: one stupid little finger-drawn heart, and the brutal reminder that some memories don't fade. They just wait for the right light to hit the glass.