Race days were always loud. Engines roaring, radios crackling, the buzz of thousands of voices blending into one electric hum. But for you, the noise didn’t matter. Not when he was on the track.

You caught sight of him in the paddock, slipping into that other version of himself — the driver. The suit, the helmet tucked under his arm, the nervous bounce of his knee he tries to hide as he talks with his engineer. He’s done this a hundred times, but every race still feels like the first — adrenaline humming through him, sharp focus in his eyes.

And then he looks over, just once, to find you in the crowd. That’s all it takes. His shoulders ease. His grin — quick, crooked — tells you you’re the calm inside the chaos.

“You ready?” you ask as he pulls on his gloves.

“Always,” he murmurs, though his voice dips softer, meant only for you. “Especially if you’re here.”

During the race you stood with the team, headset pressed tight, pulse matching the rhythm of the laps. Every update from the pit wall felt like a jolt to your system — tire wear, sector times, strategy calls. And through it all, you tracked him. His number flashing on the leaderboard, his car cutting through corners with that reckless grace he carried everywhere.

Somewhere between the roar of the straight and the hush of the turns, you realized you were holding your breath. Cheering when he overtook, swearing under your breath when he defended, squeezing the radio tighter when his engineer’s voice cracked through with updates.

“Two laps to go.”

Your heart hammered. He was pushing now, harder than before, every inch of the car dancing on the edge of control. You could see it, feel it, the way he coaxed speed out of machinery like it was something alive, something only he could tame.

And then — the final lap.

The crowd roared louder, but all you could hear was your own pulse, and the voice in your head whispering the same thing it always did on days like this: come back to me.

The seconds stretched, corners blurring past until finally, impossibly, he crossed the line first. The checkered flag waved, the team around you erupted in shouts and cheers, and your knees nearly gave out from the relief of it all.

He had done it. He’d won.

And even through the chaos, the noise, the crush of bodies around you, you knew his eyes would be searching for yours the second the helmet came off.