Pole Position: Between Logic and Passion

Little Things

I swallowed hard, not sure how to respond to that. My chest tightened with the weight of everything unsaid.

“I would’ve preferred to hear it from you,” I said quietly.

I hesitated, then looked up again, voice barely above a whisper.
“So… if the baby’s yours… do you plan to be with her? With Anna?”

Charles blinked, taken off guard. “What?”

“You heard me,” I said, trying to keep my tone even. “Are you going to… be with her? Like… officially?”

He took a deep breath, running a hand through his hair as if trying to find the right words.
“I don’t know yet. I don’t even know if it is mine.”

“But if it is?” I pushed, even though I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the answer.

He looked at me, really looked at me—eyes searching, intense.
“If it is mine… I’ll take responsibility. I’ll do what’s right for the baby. But that doesn’t mean I’ll be with her."

My chest tightened. “So you wouldn’t try to… make it work for the sake of the child?”

“I would be a father,” he said, firm but calm. “But I wouldn’t pretend to love someone I don’t.”

I didn’t say anything for a while.

Charles tilted his head, watching me in silence for a few seconds too long.

“You always get that quiet when you’re jealous?” he asked, one eyebrow raised, that infuriating smirk tugging at his mouth.

I scoffed. “I’m not jealous.”

“Sure,” he said, drawing out the word like he didn’t believe a syllable of it. “You only brought up Anna, the lunch, and the potential baby. Just a casual conversation starter.”

“I was just curious,” I said, crossing my arms. “I like to be informed about… Ferrari gossip.”

Charles chuckled and leaned a little closer, his voice lower now. “Right. So if I went out to dinner with someone tonight, purely hypothetically, you wouldn’t care?”

“Not unless you ordered the carbonara,” I said. “That’s our thing.”

He laughed — full, soft, honest. “Okay, that’s fair. So… no carbonara with other women. Got it.”

I leaned back a little, raising an eyebrow.  “I’m starting to think you just like torturing me.”

He shook his head, still smiling. “Starting to?"

----

My apartment was exactly how I’d left it. Quiet. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, dancing across the light wooden floor. I dropped my suitcase in the corner and took a deep breath.

Everything still hurt. My arm, my head, my heart — it all felt worn out, like I’d been hit by more than just a weekend of chaos.

I tossed my keys onto the kitchen counter and went straight to the bathroom. I peeled the bandage off slowly, my fingers brushing the stitches. The skin was still tender, slightly swollen. The bleeding had stopped, but the memory of it lingered, pulsing beneath the surface.

I curled up on the couch with a blanket over my legs, clutching a pillow to my chest, and let the silence wash over me.

-----

Two days later.

I was tired of being alone.

Of pretending that being busy helping Kate plan her wedding was enough to distract me. It wasn’t. Not really. Sure, I’d spent hours scrolling through floral arrangements, cake designs, bridesmaid dresses — but my mind was always drifting somewhere else. Always back to him.