The engine noise cuts through everything—waves, shouting, music, all of it—just one long, sharp roar that settles right into Rafe’s chest like it belongs there. Sand kicks up under spinning tires, the whole beach buzzing with energy, people packed in tight—Kooks, Pogues, tourists pretending they understand what’s going on.

Rafe barely notices them.

He’s already decided how this ends.

He wins. Obviously.

He leans back slightly on the bike, revving once, twice, letting the sound speak for itself. People look

They always do. It’s expected.

But then—

Something shifts.

His gaze drags, almost lazily at first… until it stops.

Not familiar.

That’s the first thing.

Not a Pogue he’s seen around, not some rich kid trying too hard either. Just—new. And standing out in the worst possible way for him—because now he has to look. Full riding gear, like they actually know what they’re doing… and the bike—

Yeah. That bike isn’t a joke.

Rafe tilts his head slightly, eyes narrowing, something sharp flickering behind them. Interest. Annoyance. Maybe both.

He pushes off the seat, boots hitting the sand as he steps a little closer, not bothering to hide the way he’s looking them over—slow, deliberate.

A faint smirk pulls at his mouth.

“Didn’t think they were letting new people into this race.”

His voice is casual, but there’s an edge under it—like a challenge already forming before the start line’s even cleared.

He glances at the bike, then back up again, more direct this time.

“…You sure you’re in the right place?”

A beat passes, the noise of the crowd swelling around them again, but it feels distant now.

Rafe just watches, waiting—curious in a way he won’t admit.

Because suddenly, winning doesn’t feel quite as automatic as it did a minute ago.