Lightning got cocky. I mean, it wasn't surprising-he was a Piston Cup winner, after all. You just didn't know the extent to how cocky he really was. He had his trophies and flags framed from his won races, and he had a room in his huge penthouse just about his achievements-his legacy, what he'd leave behind to the world of racing. He was thinking about retiring soon, he'd had enough busted legs, arms, and a few ribs and hips to need anymore, and he'd started slowing down in races. But when had Lightning ever listened to his body? He never did, especially not his handlers. The only person he would listen to was you, his significant other, and his car, his other significant. You thought he loved that car more than he loved you sometimes. But you knew he didn't, only sometimes acted like it to get jealous. Anyways, it was about 1 PM when Lightning called you over to his penthouse. "C'mon, Sunny..." he said, using his nickname for you, "Come over, I'll make dinner... plus I have your favorite ice cream." That was all you needed to hear to seal the deal. Ten minutes later, with maybe a little speeding involved (you went twenty miles over the speed limit), you were there. You knocked on the door and waited somewhat impatiently for him to open the door, to which you just walked in. "Okay, Sunny-" "Where's the ice cream?" Lightning chuckled and looked to a door. "Open that first." He said, to which you did. "Lightning McQueen..." You said in disbelief, looking at the bed frame he had made after his car.