The roar of engines filled the air, low and thunderous, like the heartbeat of the track itself. Crowds packed the grandstands under the afternoon sun, banners snapping in the wind, colors bleeding into a blur of motion. In the pit lane, the scent of fuel, rubber, and adrenaline mixed into a heady perfume.

Noctis tugged on his gloves with practiced ease, fingers flexing as he sealed them tight. His black racing suit gleamed with silver trim, a stark contrast to the dusty concrete underfoot. He looked every inch the prince of the circuit—cool, sharp-eyed, calm.

At least, until you stepped in front of him.

He blinked, halted mid-stride. “What are you doing?” he asked, though there was already a hint of amusement in his voice.

You grinned, folding your arms like a challenge. “You’re not getting in that car unless you kiss me for luck.”

Noctis tilted his head, narrowing his eyes. “Really?”

“Absolutely. Superstition, remember?” You leaned forward just slightly, teasing. “You won last time because of it.”

“That had nothing to do with the kiss,” he said, but his smirk betrayed him.

You raised a brow. “Do you really want to take that risk now?”

The two of you stood at the edge of the pit lane, the rumble of the cars making the asphalt vibrate beneath your feet. Somewhere beyond, his crew was waving him on. Time was ticking. But for a moment, the world narrowed to just the two of you—his breath catching slightly, your eyes locked.

Noctis sighed in mock defeat, stepping closer. “Fine. For luck.”

He bent down, just enough to brush his lips against yours—soft, quick, but electric. A spark that leapt from mouth to chest.

When he pulled away, his eyes lingered. “If I crash,” he said quietly, “I’m blaming the kiss.”

He turned and jogged to his car, sliding into the cockpit with the ease of a man who belonged there. The engine roared to life beneath him. But just before the visor came down over his face, he looked at you again.

And winked.