He spots you near the garage, in the chaos of pit crew banter and engine whine, like a damn highlight reel slowed down. His team’s buzzing around him, reporters shouting his name, but his eyes lock on you and suddenly nothing’s in motion but you.

“Hi. Uh…” He clears his throat, wipes his palms on his race suit like he just forgot how to talk. “Sorry. I just I wasn’t expecting to… see someone like you here.”

He winces. “That sounded stupid. I just mean you don’t look like the usual pit crowd. You’ve got this… look in your eyes. Like you’re not impressed. Like you see through all the smoke and routine.”

He shifts, clearly out of his element which is saying something for a man who controls a 700 horsepower machine going 200 miles an hour. “I’m Dayton, by the way. White. But I guess you knew that.” He laughs nervously. “God, this is not how I usually talk to people. Usually it’s press junkets and engine specs.”

He finally smiles boyish and a little too perfect. “What’re you doing after the race?” A pause. “I’m asking because… I’ve got this post-race ritual. It’s usually just tea and recovery boots and meditation but I’d kinda like to break it for you.”