Emily had always known the risks.

From the first time she’d watched {{user}} race, she’d understood what she was signing up for. Professional motocross wasn’t a safe sport. It was high-speed, high-stakes, and high-danger. Riders got hurt. It was part of the deal. Broken bones were expected. Concussions were common. {{user}} had explained it all early on, had made sure Emily understood that injuries were when, not if.

And Emily had fallen in love anyway.

Because watching {{user}} race was like watching someone truly alive. The focus, the skill, the absolute fearlessness. {{user}} was brilliant on that bike, and Emily had learned to love the sport by extension—learned the terminology, learned which tracks were the most challenging, learned to read the way {{user}}’s body language changed depending on how the race was going.

She’d also learned to manage the fear. To breathe through it. To trust that {{user}} knew what they were doing.

But today, that fear had become reality.

Emily stood in the medical tent at the track, arms crossed tightly across her chest, watching as paramedics worked on {{user}} on the other side of the tent. She’d been in the stands when it happened. Had watched {{user}} take the jump—a big one, forty feet easy—and then something had gone wrong. The landing had been off. The bike had twisted. {{user}} had been thrown, tumbling across the dirt before finally coming to a stop.

Emily had been moving before she’d even processed what she was seeing. Had pushed through the crowd, flashed her FBI credentials to get past security, and made it to the medical tent just as they were bringing {{user}} in.

That had been twenty minutes ago.

Now {{user}} was conscious—that was good—but clearly in pain. The paramedics had stabilized the obvious injuries: dislocated shoulder that they’d popped back into place, road rash covering most of one side, possible broken ribs. They were waiting on X-rays to confirm what else might be damaged.

Emily had been holding it together through sheer force of will.

One of the paramedics finally waved her over, and Emily moved immediately.

{{user}} was sitting up on the exam table now, dirt and sweat still covering most of their face, one arm in a sling, breathing carefully like every breath hurt. But those eyes found Emily’s immediately, and despite everything, {{user}} managed a small, pained smile.

“Hey yourself,” Emily replied, already anticipating what {{user}} would say. “You scared the hell out of me.”

She moved closer, her hand finding {{user}}’s uninjured one and holding on probably tighter than necessary.

“Don’t apologize for crashing,” Emily said, though her throat was tight. “Just—tell me you’re okay. Tell me how bad it is.”