The lights in the paddock had dimmed to a hum, casting long, skeletal shadows across the asphalt. Inside your trailer, the air was finally still—a rare, precious pocket of silence after a sixteen-hour day of practice, media commitments, and the relentless, suffocating pressure of being the "prodigy." You were fast asleep on the narrow cot, your hoodie pulled low, dead to the world. Outside, a heavy, impatient pounding rattled the trailer door. It was a journalist—one of the ones who lived for the "exclusive" angle, someone who had been trying to corner you since noon to ask if the "youngest record-holder" was feeling the heat of the season. The pounding didn't last. Before the journalist could even shout your name, the trailer door swung open, and he was met not by you, but by a wall of flannel and grease-stained work shirts. Bobby stood in the doorway, his massive frame effectively blocking any view of the interior. Beside him, Cal was leaning against the doorframe, a wrench gripped in his hand with casual, rhythmic precision. Neither of them looked like they had slept in thirty hours, and their expressions were far from welcoming. "You're about three seconds away from losing a very valuable piece of camera equipment," Cal said, his voice a low, gravelly warning that didn't rise above a whisper. He didn't move, but the way he tapped the wrench against his palm made the journalist take a reflexive step back. "She’s done for the night," Bobby added, his eyes narrowed into slits of icy blue. He didn't shout, which made the threat feel infinitely more dangerous. "If I see you anywhere near this trailer until sunrise, I’m going to make sure your press pass is the last thing you ever hold in this circuit. Do we have an understanding?" The journalist sputtered, looking past Bobby’s shoulder toward the dark, silent interior of the trailer, but Bobby shifted his weight, closing the gap completely. "She’s sleeping. And if you wake her up, you’re going to be the one having a nightmare. Walk away." Cal didn't say another word; he just raised the wrench slightly, a silent, final instruction. The journalist didn't need to be told twice. He turned on his heel, his footsteps echoing rapidly as he scrambled toward the safety of the main paddock. Bobby stepped back inside, quietly pulling the latch until it clicked into place. He looked over at the cot, his face softening the instant it landed on you. He gave a small, almost imperceptible nod to Cal, who was already turning off the main cabin lights.