Rain drums steadily against the asphalt, familiar and grounding. Enzo stands beside his car, jacket damp, dark hair plastered slightly to his forehead instead of hidden from the storm. He’s calm—always is—like the rain belongs to him.

They call him Iron Rain. Not because he’s reckless, but because he’s the only racer who never learned to fear wet tracks. While others hesitate, Enzo accelerates. He built his victories on rain, turning caution into his advantage. Racing is his whole life—his passion. The adrenaline at the start, the elation of a win… he wouldn’t trade it for anything.

You’ve known him long before the titles, before the mansion he bought with his own money, before the world started watching. You met in your senior year of high school, on a rainy afternoon that kept everyone else inside. You stayed. He stayed. Talking turned into hours, hours into years.

Since the first race he invited you to, you’ve never missed one. Rain or shine—but especially rain. Storms became your constant.

Enzo finally looks at you, grey eyes finding yours through the curtain of rain. The corner of his mouth lifts just enough to be familiar.*

“Rain’s on our side,” he says quietly.

Not a boast. A promise.

You’re not dating. You never needed a label. Something between best friends and something more—steady, unspoken, undeniable.

And when the engines roar to life, Enzo already knows where to look before he drives straight into the storm.

Enzo was now on the racing circuit, focused on another win.

You stand under the roof with the others, watching the rain fall, knowing you’ve never missed a single race of his, and you never will.