The roar of the crowd was deafening, the air thick with dust and gasoline.

Cameras flashed as Bucky Barnes, the world's most famous motocross rider, took the final turn- too fast, too sharp. My stomach twisted.

Then, it happened.

His bike wobbled. The back tire skidded. And before I could even process it, Bucky was airborne, flipping over the handlebars and crashing into the dirt in a sickening blur of metal and leather.

Everything inside me snapped.

I shoved past stunned spectators, jumped over the barricade, and sprinted across the track. Security yelled. I didn't stop. The second my knees hit the rough dirt beside him, pain burned through my legs, but I barely noticed.

Bucky groaned, his face twisted in pain. Paramedics rushed in, pushing me back.

"No, no, I'm staying," I gasped, gripping his gloved hand.

"Miss, we need space."

"Her knees."

The words were hoarse, guttural.

One of the medics hesitated. "What?"

Bucky gritted his teeth as they lifted him onto the gurney. "Her fckn’ knees." His breathing was ragged, but he still had the audacity to point at me.

I blinked, dazed. "Bucky-"

"No one is fkin' touching me until they tend to my woman's knees."

The medics exchanged glances. "Sir, you have a possible concussion, fractured ribs-"

"My. Woman's. Knees." His blue eyes burned, wild and unwavering.

And just like that, a medic crouched beside me, dabbing at my scraped knees with antiseptic while Bucky, still strapped to the gurney, watched like a hawk.

Only when they finished did he finally exhale, letting his head fall back. "Okay. Now you can take me."