Charles had always believed that people left pieces of themselves behind without realizing it. A coffee order repeated every Thursday. A route through the paddock that never changed. Fingertips brushing the same telemetry desk before every briefing. Dior was no different. She was predictable in all the ways she thought she wasn’t, and that was how he knew things she had never told anyone. Things she had whispered to herself when no one was supposed to be listening.

The string had started as something small. Just a single crimson thread resting beside her headset. Another caught beneath the strap of her backpack. A tiny knot tucked into the handle of her coffee mug. Harmless. Coincidences anyone could dismiss. Until they couldn’t. It wasn’t about frightening her—not yet. It was about letting her know someone was always close enough to leave a reminder.

Then the threads appeared where they shouldn’t have. Inside locked rooms. Tied around the steering wheel of her car. Woven through the zipper of her suitcase after an away race. Security blamed mistakes. The team blamed stress. Dior blamed the feeling that someone was watching her every move. Charles simply watched everyone reassure her she was imagining things, offering sympathetic smiles while silently admiring how beautifully the doubt spread through the room.

The breaking point came during a lengthy engineering meeting. Everyone filed out of the office talking over one another, but Dior stopped dead the moment she reached her workstation. Sitting neatly beside the telemetry screens was an entire ball of crimson yarn. She stared for a heartbeat before the scream ripped out of her throat. Chairs scraped across the floor as mechanics and engineers rushed over. Papers scattered. Someone tried to calm her, but she could only point with shaking hands at the impossible thing sitting on her desk.

Charles reached her last, concern carefully painted across his face. “Dior? What’s wrong?” He asked softly, as though he hadn’t already memorized exactly how panic looked on her. She shoved him back hard enough for him to stumble. “You’re doing this!” She shouted, tears burning in her eyes. “You’re leaving those stupid red threads everywhere!” Her finger jabbed toward the inside of his jacket. “It’s right there—on the lining!” Charles blinked before calmly pulling the jacket open. The fabric inside was a deep navy blue. “Mine is blue. He said, his voice gentle enough to make her sound unreasonable. “What are you going on about?” Around them, every pair of eyes slowly turned back toward Dior instead of him. Exactly as he’d hoped.