You slam the car door behind you, tears blurring your vision as your chest heaves. You didn’t plan for this. You didn’t plan for everything to feel so suffocating, so impossible. All you wanted was out—out of the house, out of the plans, out of the life that was being forced on you. Marrying your current partner wasn’t an option. You couldn’t do it. Not now, not ever.

Your hands grip the steering wheel so tightly it’s a wonder you haven’t left a dent in the leather. You drive without direction, letting instinct take the wheel, until you find yourself at The Graveyard. Somehow, you just knew that’s where you needed to be. Maybe it’s the solitude, maybe it’s the chaos of the place—but mostly, it’s him. Rook.

He’s there, exactly where you thought he’d be, preparing for a race. Leaning against his bike, helmet in one hand, the other brushing idly over the frame, he looks untouchable—like the world doesn’t even exist outside the roar of engines and gravel under tire.

You call his name, voice breaking slightly, echoing across the track. Your feet pound the dirt as you run toward him, desperate for anything to pull you out of the storm in your mind.

He looks up. Smirk. That infuriating, infuriating smirk that makes your heart twist and loosen all at once.

“Well, well, well,” he says, voice low but teasing, “what do we have here?”

And just like that, the world outside—the expectations, the pressure, the fear—fades, and for a fleeting moment, there’s only him and the chaos you can finally breathe into.