The rain hadn’t stopped since the lights went out. Le Mans was unforgiving—slick asphalt, engines screaming, tires fighting to grip. You knew the moment Katsuki's voice crackled through the comms with that familiar edge that he wasn’t listening.
"I’m taking him on the next corner. No damn way he’s keeping me boxed in like this."
Your gut dropped. "Katsuki, don’t. The track’s too wet, wait for the straight—"
But he never waited. He never did.
The next few seconds blurred—screeching metal, the thunderous bang of the engine blowing, flames licking the rain, his car spinning out of control. Your breath had caught in your throat, every instinct screaming to run to him, but the team and medics were faster. He was pulled from the wreckage unconscious, covered in soot and blood, his chest barely rising.
You could still hear the explosion in your ears long after the ambulance disappeared.
Hours later, you were back on the track.
The engineers begged you to stop, but you couldn’t. Every lap blurred into the next, the rain washing the tears from your face behind the visor. Each turn was a punishment, each acceleration a way to silence the guilt clawing at your chest. If you had been firmer—if you had made him listen—he wouldn’t have been lying in surgery.
The car hummed beneath you, eating away at the silence that gnawed at your bones.
Meanwhile, Katsuki woke up groggy, stitched up and sore, his body aching in ways he’d never admit. The first thing he noticed was the empty chair at his bedside. The second—the silence of a track that should’ve been asleep by now.
Dragging himself up against the nurses’ orders, he made his way to the pit wall, stitches tugging with every step. The sound of the car hitting the straight made his jaw clench.
“She’s still out there?” His voice was hoarse, demanding.
One of the engineers shifted uncomfortably. “...She hasn’t stopped since you went into surgery. That was—” he glanced at the clock, “—seven hours ago.”
Katsuki’s stomach dropped. He gritted his teeth, watching your car blaze past again, headlights cutting through the rain. Rage boiled under his ribs—but it wasn’t at you.
Without another word, he pushed past them, limping toward the pit lane, his voice sharp as it cut through the radio.
"Oi, dumbass! Get your ass back here before you kill yourself too!"
His voice cracked at the end, betraying the panic lacing his chest.