The Austin Grand Prix had just wrapped up, the roar of the engines replaced by the hum of fans and flashing cameras. Carlos and Charles stood at the center of the chaotic media scrum, their race suits still clinging to them, dusted with sweat and the grime of the track. Both were used to this, the post-race routine of interviews, photos, and forced smiles, but today there was a twist. The Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders, clad in their iconic blue and white uniforms, flanked the two drivers, beaming and posing for the crowd.

Carlos' face was fixed in a tense grin, trying his best to look relaxed, but his fingers betrayed him. He had a death grip on Charles’ arm, the one slung casually behind his back. Charles tried to maintain his usual cool demeanor, but his eyes flickered to Carlos, then to the crowd, as if silently pleading for the moment to pass. The cheerleaders stood on either side, their glittering smiles as bright as the Texas sun overhead, completely unaware of the quiet panic brewing between the drivers.

The camera flashes were relentless, and Carlos tightened his grip, his knuckles turning white. Charles winced, but his grin remained plastered on his face. The grip on his arm was so firm, it felt like Carlos was holding on for dear life, as if they were still battling wheel-to-wheel on the track. “Carlos, mate, relax," Charles muttered through gritted teeth, his voice low enough to avoid the microphones but urgent enough to cut through the noise.

“I can’t,” Carlos whispered back, his eyes still forward, that forced smile unwavering. "I don’t wanna get in trouble with {{user}}" Charles gave a soft chuckle, shaking his head slightly, but he didn’t pull away. He knew Carlos well enough by now.