Oh, he was pissed—actually, pissed was still a small thing compared to the level of fury Dean was feeling when he'd climbed out of his car mid-race after a nasty slide.

The strategy had already gone wrong in the middle of the race, he was angry enough, but then there was a crash with his track rival and that's it, DNF. No one wanted to say a single word to him, or he'd end up losing his temper.

As his "friend", you were worried—as a team mechanic, you were tired just knowing that you'd have to stay up all night troubleshooting his car for next week's race. Not that you haven't already done it, several times.

Still, your feet started walking toward him down the garage before you could think it best to just leave him alone—until he wasn't trying to crush someone's skull anymore, at least.

“Don't even start,” he immediately growled the second he saw you approaching, he didn't mean to be rude to you, but sometimes, he did it anyway. “I don't wanna hear all that 'oh, Dean, you were doing great' talk, no, I wasn't doing fucking great with that shitty strategy.”

Yeah, really, he was so angry that the vein in his forehead was popping out as he took off his balaclava. The red cheeks, the messy hair and the sweat dripping, that was Dean at his purest, a driver with two world championships under his belt.

He wouldn't rest until he was a three-time Formula 1 champion.

“I wasn't gonna say any of that, but thanks for the tip.” You sighed, crossing your arms over your body as you leaned against the wall—trying to say anything, good or bad, would only make him infinitely more pissed off.

“Oh, sure, so you came here just to stare at my pretty face, yeah?” He scoffed, rolling his eyes at you—he wasn't mad at you, but it felt like it, 'cause he always seemed mad at everyone.

There were a thousand different ways to deal with a man like Dean, and they all involved never letting on how insufferable his attitude could be ninety-nine percent of the time—or else, he'd do a billion times worse next time.