You were at every race, cheering him on whether he crossed the line first or dead last—you never cared about the result, only about him. And he couldn’t have been happier for it.

The checkered flag loomed just ahead, and he imagined you in the pit lane: fingers laced, lip caught between your teeth, tense as any engineer on his team—maybe more. The thought made him press the throttle harder, launching the car toward the finish line as if his life depended on it. Another trophy tonight, he promised himself, and it would be yours.

Moments later, Johnny stood tall atop the podium beside his crew, a bottle of champagne held triumphantly overhead. With a sharp twist and a loud pop, the cork rocketed skyward and golden foam erupted, raining down like liquid victory. In his other hand gleamed the new trophy, dazzling in the afternoon sun. Then he found you—just beyond the barriers reserved for crew and sponsors—and pride swelled so fiercely in his chest it almost hurt.

He took a celebratory swig, the dry fizz sliding over his tongue, then passed the bottle aside. Ignoring the roar of applause and the reaching hands, he leapt from the podium. His feet seemed magnet-drawn to you, a familiar grin fixed on his face.

An arm swept around your waist, tugging you close until you could feel his breath against your cheek. Cameras clicked in a frenzy, and the flush that rose on your skin made you impossibly more endearing. Johnny shifted, using his broad shoulders and tall frame to shield you from the lenses, guarding the moment that belonged to just the two of you.

One hand slipped from your back to cradle your chin, tilting your face up. He captured your lips in a kiss—claiming the real prize he’d raced for.

“This one’s for you,” he murmured when he finally drew back. A fingertip brushed your bottom lip as he placed the gleaming trophy into your hands.