Page 84 of Redline
He doesn't move immediately. He stays there, his chest nearly brushed against my back, his arms trapping me inside. For a heartbeat, the rain and the noise of the mechanics on the other side of the room disappear entirely as I slowly lower my headphones from my ears. There is only the sound of his ragged breathing against the crown of my head and the heat coming off his body.
He feels... electric. And dangerously close.
I turn slowly, and because he hasn’t stepped back yet, I’m forced to look up. He’s right there. Close enough that I can see the faint tremor in his cheekbone and the way the moisture on his skin isn't just rain—it's a cold sweat.
We’re in that weird, suffocating limbo where we aren't friends but we aren't strangers either.
He slowly eases back, but he doesn't go far. “You were about to wear that,” he says quietly, his voice gravelly and low.
“I had it,” I reply, the lie coming out a little too fast, a little too defensive.
Standing this close, the overhead lights are merciless, catching the deep, bruised discoloration under his eyes and the slight, erratic pulse in his neck.
He looks exhausted—not just from the storm or the travel, but bone-deep, as if the effort of staying upright is draining his battery to zero. There’s a haze behind his eyes that wasn't there before I left, a subtle, sharp hurt that flickers the second he catches my gaze. I can see the gold flecks in his dark irises, usually so bright when he’s taunting me, now clouded and dull. The set of his mouth is tight, a hard line of endurance that makes the lie of his posture even more obvious.
He’s the one who pushed me away. He’s the one who decided I was a miscalculation that needed to be solved. But looking at the way his fingers twitch, I realize he’s failing his own math.
“Thanks anyway,” I add, the words stiff and formal, a shield to keep me from reaching out to see if he’s actually as aloof as he looks.
He nods once. He doesn’t smile. The silence between us in our private alcove stretches.
“How was the meeting?” I ask, clearing my throat.
“Delayed,” he says, his eyes tracking a leak in the roof instead of my face. “Until tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow? They almost never scrub a Saturday completely.”
“Visibility is zero. They tried the Safety Car again while we were in the briefing. It was like driving into a wall of milk.”
“Maybe it’s the visibility,” I say, my voice tilting into something mocking. “Or maybe you’re just having trouble seeing straight today. Was the vintage at the party last night worth the hangover, or is this just your new signature look?”
The tendons in his neck pull taut. He doesn't look away. “I didn’t realize you were keeping tabs on my intake. I thought you were too busy ‘finding work’ to notice.”
“Hard not to notice when you’re vibrating,” I retort, gesturing vaguely to the slight tremor in his stance. “You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge and then decided to stand in a monsoon for the aesthetic. It’s a bit pathetic, even for you.”
His eyes darken, the golden flecks turning to flint. He steps a fraction closer, the closeness of him pressing into my space again. “If I’m so pathetic, why are you still standing here? The exit isn’t blocked.”
“My work is here,” I snap. “And unfortunately, so are you.”
He opens his mouth to give as good as he's got, but the air suddenly charges with a heavy, static weight.
As he speaks, the bank of servers behind us begins to whine—a high-pitched, protesting sound that makes the hair on my neck stand up. The overhead lights don't just snap off; they struggle first, pulsing twice with a sickly violet hue before a heavythunkechoes from the circuit breakers at the far end of the bay. Then, the darkness drops.
The hum of the garage dies mid-note, replaced by a sharp, violent crack of static from the back wall and the unmistakable sting of ozone.
“Hold your area!” Marco’s voice booms, his shout amplified by the sudden, eerie quiet of the dead electronics. “Don’t move! Back-line power just tripped—we’ve got water contact on the mains! Stay exactly where you are until electric clears the floor!”
I freeze, my back still pressed against the shelving. Dominic hasn't moved. “Looks like you’re stuck,” he says, his voice a low, rough rasp in the dark.
“For now,” I reply, finding my voice even as my heart hammers against my ribs. I realize then that I’m still trapped under the curve of his arms, effectively stuck. I duck beneath his reach,a sharp, dismissive movement that breaks the physical circuit between us. “But I can manage a few feet of distance, thanks.”
I take a confident step toward the open end of the bay, desperate to put space between us—protocol be damned. I’m not even two paces out when a sharpcrackechoes through the garage. A stray spark, brilliant and luminous, shoots from the conduit near the base of the rack. It hits a shallow pool of water just inches from my foot, the surface of the water sizzling with a terrifying, blue-white light.
A short, sharp gasp escapes me—half a scream, half a curse—as I instinctively recoil.
“Carter? You okay back there?” My father’s voice rings out from across the garage, tight with a sudden, sharp edge of panic.
I don’t get a chance to answer.
