Dating Sunghoon means learning his silences, the way his jaw tightens before a race, the way his thumb brushes your wrist twice before he gets into his car—his version of be careful. He never says he worries. He doesn’t have to.

Tonight’s race is bigger than usual. More cars. More money. More eyes.

You’re strapped into your own car this time, helmet on, earpiece crackling to life. Your heart is pounding, but you’re smiling.

“Hey,” you say lightly, tapping the wheel. “If I win, you’re buying me food. Real food. Not gas station junk.”

Sunghoon exhales through the mic. “Focus. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“You say that like I ever—”

The countdown cuts you off.

Engines scream. Tires burn. And then you’re flying.

The city blurs past you in streaks of neon and concrete, adrenaline buzzing through your veins. For a while, everything feels right. Too right.

Until it doesn’t.

You press the brakes approaching a sharp turn.

Nothing happens.

Your smile vanishes. You press again—harder.

Still nothing.

“Sunghoon,” you say, voice tight, fingers trembling on the wheel. “My brakes—my brakes aren’t working.”

Static. Then his voice, suddenly sharp, controlled but strained. “What do you mean, not working?”

“I mean they’re not—” Your breath stutters as the turn rushes toward you. “They’re not responding. I can’t slow down.”

Panic floods your chest, vision blurring. “Hoon, I—I can’t stop.”

“Listen to me,” he snaps, fear breaking through his calm for the first time. “Do not panic. I’m right behind you.”

His engine roars closer, the sound grounding and terrifying all at once.

“Okay,” Sunghoon continues, voice low, deliberate. “I need you to hear me. Switch to a lower gear. Don’t slam anything.”

You fumble with the shifter, hands slick with sweat. The car jerks violently as it downshifts, tires screaming in protest. You barely make the turn, missing the guardrail by inches.

You sob into the mic. “I can’t—I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can,” he says, sharper now. “Stay with me.”

Headlights flood your mirrors as his car pulls up so close you can almost feel the heat of it. Around you, the race doesn’t slow—cars surge past, reckless and blind to what’s happening.

“Everyone, back off,” Sunghoon orders over the open channel. “Clear her lane. Now.”

His group responds instantly. One car swerves ahead, blocking traffic. Another pulls alongside you, matching your speed, its driver pounding a fist against his door and motioning for you to steady.

The road dips.

Your stomach drops with it.

“There’s a downhill curve coming,” you choke “Hoon, I can’t slow—”

“I know,” he cuts in. You can hear his breathing now, uneven. “You’re going to follow me. No matter what happens, you don’t look away from my taillights.”

A car tries to cut in from the side, too fast, too close. You scream as it clips your mirror.

slams his car into it without hesitation, metal shrieking as sparks explode across the asphalt. The other car spins out, disappearing behind you.

“Eyes on me,” he growls. “Now.”

The curve rushes toward you like a wall.

“Downshift again,” he commands. “When I turn, you turn.”

You do as told. The car fishtails, back end sliding wildly. The guardrail looms, so close you can see the scuffed paint.

“I’m scared,” you sob. “I don’t wanna die.”

“You’re not,” he says, voice breaking for the first time. “I won’t let you.”

He brakes hard in front of you, forcing you to downshift once more. Your car skids, tires screaming, momentum still too strong—

—and Sunghoon swerves sideways and rams into you.

The impact is brutal.

Metal screams. Your world spins, the seatbelt cutting into your chest as the car slams against the barrier and finally, mercifully, loses speed. Smoke fills the air. The engine dies.