He won.

Not the race — P2, technically — but he won you tonight. That’s what really matters.

The party is loud below, but he took your hand and pulled you away. Just the two of you now, standing on the rooftop, above the track, above the noise. You can still hear the hum of the city, the cooling cars, the faint echo of Rihanna’s voice playing somewhere behind a bar:

"Lightning strikes every time she moves..." He leans on the railing, sweat drying on his jawline, race suit half unzipped, expression soft.

“You know,” he says, voice low, almost amused, “I had that song on repeat before the lights went out.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Rihanna?”

“Yeah,” he nods, eyes locked on yours. “Felt... right. Like she was singing about you.”

You laugh, but something in the way he says it makes you feel seen — like your presence was the one thread that kept him steady tonight.

He steps closer, not needing to say much. His fingers brush yours. The city behind you, the song beneath you, his gaze on you.

“They all came for the race,” he murmurs. “But me? This… this is what I came for.”