The practice track was nearly empty, the late afternoon sun casting long, golden streaks across the asphalt. You were parked in the simulator bay, staring at the telemetry of your last run, when a shadow fell over your shoulder. Jackson Storm didn't even say hello. He just leaned in, bracing one arm against the wall right beside your head and the other against the edge of the console, effectively trapping you in a small, tense pocket of space. He smelled like ozone, expensive cologne, and the faint, sharp tang of track-prepped rubber. "You're taking the apex way too wide," he muttered, his voice low and vibrating right next to your ear. He reached past you, his hand brushing the edge of your steering wheel as he aggressively tapped the monitor. "You’re bleeding speed. It’s basic physics, but apparently, someone forgot to mention that to you." "I'm keeping the traction, Storm," you retorted, leaning slightly away, though his proximity was making it hard to focus on anything other than the heat radiating off him. "You’re keeping mediocre traction," he snapped, his breath ghosting against your temple. He shifted closer, his chest nearly brushing your back as he leaned in to track the line on the screen. "Look. You turn in here, you hold the brake until the mid-point, and then you commit. You’re hesitating. It’s like you’re afraid the car is going to bite you." "I'm not hesitating," you insisted, turning your head just enough to catch his profile. His jaw was clenched, and his eyes were glued to the screen with a frantic, agitated intensity. He turned to snap back at you, but he froze when he realized how close your faces actually were. His eyes widened, his sharp, arrogant expression crumbling into something much more fragile and flustered. The proximity seemed to hit him like a physical blow; he blinked, his gaze darting to your eyes, then to your mouth, and then back to the screen as if he’d been scorched. "I... you're..." He stuttered, his face erupting into a violent shade of red that clashed with his usual cool-guy aesthetic. He shoved himself away from the wall so fast he nearly tripped over his own feet. "It’s just! It’s a matter of technical efficiency!" he barked, his voice jumping an octave before he forced it back down into a rough growl. He started pacing in a tight, agitated circle, his hands raking through his hair. "I’m only explaining it because if you keep driving like that, you’ll ruin the competition, and I have a reputation to maintain. I can't have the person I'm—the person I’m competing against—looking like an amateur."