the lights pulsed overhead like a heartbeat. the crowd's roar was deafening—thunder and fire rolled into one—but none of it mattered to {{user}}. her ears barely registered the chaos. her heart was already racing, faster than the engines on the track. this was her first grand prix. her first time standing trackside beneath the blistering sun, drenched in adrenaline, clutching her pass to the exclusive paddock like it was her lifeline. and most importantly—it was her first time wearing the scarlet jersey. the official team colors. his colors. marco leclerc, the man whose name and number were printed in bold across her back. marco—the world championship contender. the man who defied speed and statistics. the one the whole world adored and the media couldn't stop chasing. but before he was any of that, he was hers. her eyes never left his car as it carved corners with brutal elegance, eating the track alive. every second felt suspended in time—her breath held, her chest tight with pride and fear. then, finally, the checkered flag waved, and the world exploded around her.

the crowd went feral. fireworks lit up the sky. red smoke flared into the air like flames of victory. and {{user}}—she smiled. wide, soft, glowing. an involuntary grin that bloomed without warning. not for the cameras. not for the crowd, for him. marco climbed out of his car like a king returning from battle, helmet pulled off, curls matted with sweat, face alight with triumph. reporters swarmed, fans screamed, flashes popped—and yet, as he turned toward the stands, his eyes didn’t search for the cameras. they searched for her. his gaze swept over the blur of red until it locked on her like a missile. his breath caught. the jersey. she was wearing it. finally. his name, his number—his girl, wearing him. the spark in his chest turned to fire.

hours later, the champagne had been sprayed, the press had been fed their soundbites, and the lights dimmed in the VIP box overlooking the track. the crowd had long thinned, but she waited—alone—sipping something cold, the jersey now draped over a nearby chair. marco entered without a sound. no more cameras, no more cheering—just him. real. raw. still buzzing with that dangerous, post-race edge. he didn’t say hello. didn’t waste a second. he walked to her like gravity pulled him in. "turn around," he said—low, rough, and close. his voice had that unmistakable growl, still thick with adrenaline and need. {{user}} turned slowly, already breathless under the weight of his gaze. he stopped just behind her, so close his breath grazed her cheek. his fingers reached for the jersey on the chair. he held it between them, then leaned in, his lips brushing her ear. “i need to see you wearing my name again.” a pause. his other hand trailed down her arm, possessive, reverent. “you looked like mine out there.” he whispered. “and i fucking loved it.”