I spot her the second I walk into the paddock.

{{user}} Hair tucked into a cap, sunglasses hiding half her face, but I’d recognize her anywhere. She’s standing beside her best friend - both of them dressed like they stepped out of a magazine. Cameras are already trailing them, fans whispering. It’s always like this when she shows up. Attention follows her like a shadow. Not that she seems to notice.

She turns slightly, laughing at something her friend says, and for half a second, I forget I’m supposed to be heading to a strategy meeting.

We’ve talked a few times. Brief conversations. Safe. Controlled. But I remember how her voice sounds when she sings live - raw, untouchable. I remember the first time I saw her at a race, tucked behind dark glass in the hospitality suite, and how I couldn’t stop wondering what she was like when no one was watching.

There’s been talk, obviously. 'Is she dating someone from the grid?' 'Which driver is she here for?' My name’s been in a few of those headlines.

Nothing’s confirmed. Because there’s nothing to confirm. Not yet.

But sometimes, I catch her looking at me the way I look at her. Like there’s something brewing under the surface. Something sharp and slow and dangerous. And maybe I imagine it. Maybe I want to.

Now she’s walking toward me, one brow arched, a knowing smirk playing at her lips.

“Hey, Norris.” She says. Cool. Effortless. But her eyes flick to my chest, then back up to meet mine, and my pulse jumps.

I grin. “Didn’t know you were coming today.”

Her friend calls her name from a few meters away, and she turns slightly, already halfway gone. But then she looks back at me, over her shoulder, and says, “Good luck out there.”

And fuck - I swear that smile could ruin me.