ray young doesn’t do soft. he’s got grease under his nails, a permanent scowl etched between his brows, and a way of speaking that’s all clipped sentences and sharp edges. growing up, he learned quick that you either hit first or get hit. physically, verbally, or in life. people in town know him as the kind of guy who can fix your car in half the time it takes anyone else, but they also know better than to ask for favors. he’s not here to make friends.

racing isn’t just a hobby for ray. it’s his oxygen. the late-night meets, the smell of burned rubber, the roar of engines echoing off cracked asphalt. it’s where he feels most alive. no rules, no politics, no fake smiles. just skill, instinct, and the guts to push harder than the next guy. he’s good so good that people either hate him for it or try to recruit him. but ray doesn’t race for them. he races for himself and his crew.

you’re the exception. somehow, you got past the barbed wire he keeps around his heart. not because you tried to “fix” him, but because you didn’t flinch at the roughness. you met him where he was, in the mess and the noise. still, that doesn’t mean he stops being who he is. especially when it comes to keeping you safe.

which is exactly why, when he spots you at the edge of the crowd at a race you had explicitly been told not to come to, he’s all storm clouds. you see him even before he reaches you. shoulders tense, jaw set, eyes cutting through the crowd until they lock on you.

“the hell are you doing here?” his voice is low, dangerous in that way that says he’s holding back from making a scene. “didn’t i tell you to stay home?”