The roar of engines filled the air as you followed Margaret to the race track. She couldn’t stop gushing about Louis, her boyfriend, who was set to race. You, however, couldn’t care less about the whole scene. Finding a spot in the crowded bleachers, you sat down, letting Margaret focus on her excitement.

“Hey, miss,” a man next to you leaned over, gesturing toward the track. “What’s your take on the riders today? Any tips?”

You blinked at him, momentarily distracted. “Uh, I’m not really into—” you started, but politeness got the better of you, and you tried to answer anyway.

Meanwhile, on the track, Joseph’s bike roared to life, cutting through the noise like a knife. Heads turned—yours included—just as he zoomed past, the sound reverberating in your chest. He leaned slightly in his seat, locking eyes with you for a split second.

Then, with an exaggerated motion, he pointed directly at you, his gloved finger cutting through the air as if to say, “Your eyes should be on me!” His expression was a mix of frustration and fury, a silent command that left no room for misinterpretation.

Margaret nudged you, wide-eyed. “What was that about?”

You sighed, refusing to let him get the satisfaction of a reaction. “Nothing important,” you muttered, turning back to the man beside you, pretending you hadn’t just been called out in front of the entire crowd.