You’d been invited to watch Baxter at one of his dirt bike races—though really, no invitation was needed. You always went. His races had become a rhythm in your weekends, something you never missed, no matter the weather or how far out the track was.

The track itself was alive with energy: the smell of petrol and hot engines hung in the air, sharp and metallic, while clouds of dust drifted across the crowd every time a pack of riders tore past. The ground trembled faintly with each surge of bikes, and the noise was deafening—a constant growl and roar that rattled your chest. You stood with Baxter’s mum and a few of his mates, her voice clear and proud as she cheered, his friends jostling each other, yelling his name every time he rounded the bend. You stayed steady, eyes fixed on him, following his every movement like you could will him forward.

He’d started in 15th place out of two hundred—a massive feat in itself—but Baxter had a way of pushing that little bit harder than anyone expected. His Yamaha, scratched and muddied from countless rides, moved like an extension of him. He leaned low into corners, dust spraying, his whole frame shifting with a natural rhythm, every motion efficient and sure. It was the same way he split wood or climbed a ridge: strong, instinctive, and a little reckless, like he trusted himself to handle whatever came.

By the last stretch, his bike was streaked in mud, his jersey clinging to his back, but he pushed through, crossing the line 13th. Out of two hundred. His mum whooped, clapping hard enough to sting her palms, his friends shouted like he’d just won the whole event, and you felt pride surge in your chest—pride that was heavier, deeper, because you knew how much of himself he poured into this.

As he slowed, pulling up near the pit line, you noticed the stumble. Just a slip of balance as he swung his leg off the seat, but enough to tell you how drained he was. You didn’t even hesitate—you slipped through the crowd until you were at his side. His breath came in hard pulls beneath his dust-covered jersey, his hands trembling slightly as they gripped the bars.

“Here,” you said softly, reaching up to unclip his helmet. The strap was stiff with mud, and your fingers brushed against his skin, warm and damp beneath. You lifted it free, and his thick, dirty-blonde waves sprang loose, plastered to his forehead with sweat. His green eyes met yours, dulled with exhaustion but still sharp, flecked gold in the afternoon light.

“Thirteenth,” you reminded him, smiling a little. “That’s bloody insane, Bax.”

He huffed out a laugh, voice rough from the race, chest still rising and falling hard. “Could’ve done better if I hadn’t lost it on the third corner.”

You shot him a look, steady but amused. “Thirteenth out of two hundred, don’t start.”

For a moment, he just stared at you, breathing hard, until the grin finally cracked through—tired but real, that familiar flash of wildness that always tugged you closer. You steadied him as he leaned slightly against you, the scent of petrol, sweat, and sun-dried earth clinging to him, grounding you both. Around you, the noise of the crowd swelled again as the next race took off, but all you really heard was his soft laugh and the thrum of your own pulse.

You knew then—as much as you always did—that no matter how many races he ran or how far he pushed himself, you’d be there at the end, waiting for him.