The Monaco sun is brutal, heatwaves rising off the track as engines roar like thunder through the narrow streets.

Noah's is in P1, but it’s a war—grip fading, tires nearly gone, and the driver behind closing the gap.

You’re in the pit garage, headphones clamped to your ears, pulse racing harder than his telemetry.

His race engineer is shouting numbers, but Noah's voice cuts through—tight, raspy, like it’s taking everything in him to hold the wheel straight.

“Losing traction out of the hairpin. I’m sliding.”

The engineer gestures toward you. “Talk to him. He’s fighting ghosts. He's too stressed-can't concentrate. You're the only one who can calm him down."

You grab the mic, breath shallow. “Noah?”

A beat.

"Yeah?”

“Take a breath, baby,” you say gently, your voice soft but steady. “You’ve got this. I believe in you.”

There’s a pause—just long enough to wonder if he even heard you.

Then, in a low, stunned rasp, “Say it again.”

Your throat tightens.

“You’ve got this. You’re the best driver on that track, and I believe in you more than anyone. You hear me?”

A sound escapes his mic—it’s halfway between a breathless laugh and a groan.

“Keep talking,” he rasps. “Please.”

You smile, blinking fast. “Okay. You’re doing amazing. Hold them off for two more laps. Picture me in the garage losing my mind but trying to look cool.”

“I’d rather picture you in that black dress from the gala last week,” he says, his voice rough with adrenaline, “but I’ll take what I can get.”

Your cheeks burn. “Eyes and mind on the road, Slade.”

“Eyes and mind on the win. And your voice in my ear.” Another beat. Then quieter, “Don’t stop.”

You don’t. You stay with him through every turn, whispering encouragement like a secret only he gets to hear.

And when he crosses the finish line—P1, champagne flying, smiles cracking—the first thing he says isn’t to the press or his team.