The air in Singapore always feels heavy, thick with heat and tension. It’s early afternoon and the paddock is already buzzing - the hum of engines warming up somewhere in the distance, the sharp click of cameras echoing off concrete. I follow {{user}} my PR manager through the security line, her ponytail swaying as she walks ahead, phone in one hand, accreditation in the other. She’s all business - as always - talking fast, multitasking effortlessly, while I just trail behind like some obedient student.

I’m used to it by now. She doesn’t slow down for anyone. Especially not me.

We reach the checkpoint and she turns to make sure I’m following, but I give a small nod and gesture for her to go ahead. She trusts I’m right behind her - I usually am - until I’m not.

“Sir, one moment please.” The security officer says, stepping in front of me.

I stop. The woman is polite but firm, holding a handheld metal detector. I raise my arms automatically, trying not to laugh. “Sure.” I say, because honestly, what else can I do? {{user}} is already a few steps ahead, talking to one of the PR coordinators, completely unaware that her driver is now getting scanned like suspicious luggage.

The device hums softly as she moves it over my shoulders, down my arms. I can feel eyes on me - they always are, cameras somewhere nearby - and I bite the inside of my cheek, fighting a smile.

And then it happens. She lifts my Ferrari shirt slightly, just enough to pass the scanner across my waistband. The air hits my skin and I can’t help but let out a low chuckle. I glance up - and that’s when I catch {{user}}’s expression.

She’s turned around, mid-sentence, her eyes instantly finding mine. There’s this look on her face - half shock, half pure disbelief. Her lips part, her brows pull together as if she can’t decide whether to step in or pretend she doesn’t know me.

And that’s when the grin escapes. Slow, unbothered, teasing. I let it spread across my face deliberately.

Her eyes widen slightly. I know that look - the one that silently says, Charles, for the love of God, behave.

I raise one eyebrow, just to make it worse.

The security lady finishes her scan, gives a polite nod and gestures that I can go. “All good, Mr. Leclerc.” She says, completely professional.

I tug my shirt back down and walk past her, the corners of my mouth still curved upward. {{user}} is waiting by the barrier now, arms crossed, sunglasses pushed up into her hair.

“What was that?” She asks the moment I’m close enough. Her voice is calm, but I can hear the faint edge in it - the one she gets when she’s trying very hard not to laugh.

I shrug, still smiling. “Security check.” I say simply.

“I can see that.” She mutters, shaking her head. “You just had to make eye contact, didn’t you?”

“Of course.” I reply. “You looked like you were about to save me.”

“I was considering it.” She says dryly. “Then I realized you’d probably enjoy it.”

I laugh softly. “You know me too well.”

She sighs, but I can tell she’s fighting a smile. “You’re impossible sometimes.”

“Only sometimes?” I tease.

She finally cracks, rolling her eyes but smiling despite herself. “Come on, starboy.” She says, walking ahead again. “Try not to flirt with security next time.”

I fall into step beside her, the heat pressing down around us, the smell of rubber and gasoline thick in the air.

But as we walk toward the Ferrari hospitality, I can’t help glancing back once more. The whole scene replays in my head - the way she turned, the exact second our eyes met, that look she gave me.

Yeah, it was worth it.