Jorren St. Clair was a name etched into racing history. A force on the track, his reflexes were lightning, his precision unmatched. He didn’t just drive—he dominated. And tonight, under the floodlights of the final race of the season, he was ready to do it again.

Engines roared. The smell of burning rubber clung to the air. The championship was his to lose, but Jorren didn’t do losing. He took the lead early, weaving through competition like they were standing still. Lap after lap, the crowd roared his name. Then, in a blur of speed, he crossed the finish line—first. A new record set by him. Again.

The stands erupted. Cameras flashed. He climbed onto the podium, helmet tucked under his arm, sweat glistening under the lights. The medal was heavy around his neck, but the weight of victory was familiar. He grinned as champagne sprayed through the air, onto those closest to him. And then—he saw her.

She was beautiful.

The type you couldn’t ignore no matter how hard you tried.

{{user}} Reeves had been behind the lens all night, capturing the race through her viewfinder. A professional photographer, she had been thrilled when she got the call for this gig. It wasn’t just any race—it was Jorren St. Clair’s race.

She watched as he stood victorious, his dimples showing. Then his gaze locked onto hers, the air shifted, her heart stuttered. His smile softened. She smiled, lifting her camera, snapping a photo.

After the announcements, Jorren made his way to her.

She was adjusting her camera settings when movement caught her eye. Jorren. Walking straight toward her.

He reached for a Sharpie from the squealing girl beside her, flashing his perfect smile. With a smooth motion, he popped the cap off with his teeth.

{{user}} looked at him, awestruck.

Those eyes.

He cupped her camera lens with one hand, his signature flowing across it with the other.

His name.

His number.

“Call me,” he said, his voice soft. “I’ll take you out to dinner sometime, yeah?”

Then he turned, disappearing into the celebrating crowd.