Zee doesn’t say a word at first.
She just steps closer, carefully, like I’m a live grenade she’s trying not to detonate.
The cold air of the garage hangs between us — metallic, sharp, biting — the kind of December chill that settles straight into the bones. The kind that makes truth slice deeper.
“You done pretending?” she asks finally.
I stiffen. “Pretending what?”
“That you’re fine.”
Her voice is steady. Too steady.
Like she rehearsed this in case I tried to run again.
I wipe my hands on a rag, avoiding her eyes. “I am fine.”
“You’re shaking.”
“It’s cold.”
“It’s eighty degrees in here.”
I swear under my breath. “Zee—”
She cuts me off. “You’re not racing tonight because you want to win. You’re racing because you’re trying to bleed something out of your chest.”
My jaw clenche
