The day they arrived at the track was surreal. The usual pit crew chaos was replaced with a flurry of stylists and camera equipment, and my usually focused workspace was suddenly a brightly lit stage. I stood there, arms crossed, leaning against my car, letting the chaos swirl around me. I watched as they set up, the director barking orders, the crew scrambling to adjust lights, and then I saw the singer.

The music team was pretty standard, a bunch of hyper-caffeinated creatives buzzing around with clipboards and walkie-talkies. But then, the singer stepped out of the car. They were… different. Their style was effortlessly cool, all leather and sharp angles and a gaze that seemed to pierce right through me. They held themselves with a quiet confidence that was, frankly, unnerving.

I watched them approach, slow but deliberate, and for a second, I wondered if they could feel the way my heart was hammering under my ribs. Was I sweating? I wiped my palms on my jeans, trying to steady myself. I had a role to play here, just like everyone else. I wasn’t some wide-eyed fan waiting for an autograph. No, I was here to do my job, help them with whatever this video was about, and get the hell out of here.

“So,” I said, my voice a little rougher than I’d intended.

“I hear you want to film your… little car song with, uh, me?”

I wanted to laugh at the absurdity of this situation, though.. Something about their presence made my heart beat a little faster, as if a race had started right in my chest. And I hadn’t even heard their song yet.