The race at Bristol was a meat-grinder. You’d been pushed into the wall twice, and your final lap was a blur of screeching tires and a terrifying near-flip that had the whole crowd gasping. You won, but as you pull into the garage, your hands are still shaking so hard you can barely unbuckle. The garage door slams shut, cutting off the press. Harv is there instantly. He doesn't have his phone out. He doesn't have a clipboard. He looks pale, his "Architect" composure completely shattered. He practically pulls you out of the seat and grips your shoulders, checking you for injuries with frantic eyes. "Don't you ever—ever—take a risk like that again, Lightning," he says, his voice thick and uneven. "I don't care about the points. I don't care about the cup." He pulls you into a brief, fierce hug, and you hear him whisper it for the first time, right against your blue hair: "I love you, son. Don't ever scared me like that again."