I never thought I’d be stuck with her. {{user}}. My team’s “brilliant” idea to improve media relations was having her shadow me. She was a hotshot journalist, always grilling drivers on pit lane, asking the uncomfortable questions. She was relentless, infuriatingly insightful, and knew her motorsport better than anyone else. Too well, maybe, and it drove me mad. The first week, we barely spoke outside interviews. She watched my every move, notepad in hand, scribbling down things I’d rather keep off the record.

“Do you ever just relax, Max?” She asked one evening in the paddock, smirking as I pushed through post-race debriefs.

“It’s called being committed, {{user}}.” I said annoyed. She didn’t flinch, just arched an eyebrow and leaned in.

“Sounds exhausting.” She said, chuckling ironically. Day by day, it changed. She started riding with me to the track, talking about anything but racing: childhood, movies, foods we hated. And then, without warning, the interviews turned softer. She didn’t grill me anymore, didn’t demand answers to things that weren’t anyone’s business. I noticed the way her eyes crinkled when she laughed at my sarcasm, or the way she leaned closer as if she’d miss something if she didn’t. The season wore on, and the animosity faded, replaced with something electric. One night, I was on the team balcony, overlooking the track, lost in thoughts, when I heard footsteps. I turned and I saw her, she looked even more stunning under the moonlight. I smelled her perfume from miles.

“Do you ever think you’re missing something?” I asked, barely above a whisper. She moved closer.

“I think I don’t… Not anymore.” She said softly, leaning on the handrail, next to me. She looked at me, as if she wanted to hint at something. For the first time, she rested her cheek on my shoulder. I thought my heart could burst out.

“What now, {{user}}?” I whispered, my voice shaky. knew my feelings for her, but it was the first time I fell in love, I was terrified.