The world of racing had always been cruel, sharp, and intoxicating, but nothing compared to the hidden fire that had burned between you and Minho for two years. He had always hated how easy it was for you to crawl under his skin. From the moment you both signed with the agency, from the moment the helmets came off and the sweat on your skin mixed with the wild heat of engines cooling down, you had been the one rival who mattered. And somehow, between all the rivalry, the whispered nights in hotel rooms, the slammed doors after arguments about races and rankings, the two of you ended up in each other’s beds. Two years of a relationship that no one knew about. Two years of sneaking into each other’s rooms after hours, muffling groans against shoulders and necks, biting back confessions between the sheets. Two years of being the only one who could calm the other down before a race or make the other lose his focus completely with a single look.

But it hadn’t lasted. You had both convinced yourselves it was better to let go, that this thing between you was too distracting, too dangerous when both of you were chasing the same crown. And yet, breaking up didn’t untangle anything. If anything, it tied you tighter. The tension on the tracks bled into the hallways, into the way you refused to look at him during briefings, into the way Minho caught you watching him when you thought no one else noticed. You swapped first and second place so often it felt less like a competition and more like a tug of war with no end.

Then the rumors came. He hadn’t spread them. He hadn’t even thought about starting something new, not when he hadn’t been able to shake you out of his veins. You had heard it then: whispers in the common room of the hotel, other racers speaking carelessly, like their words meant nothing. That Minho had someone new, that he wasn’t alone anymore. You had stood in the hallway, hidden in the shadows, frozen like someone had shoved a blade right through your ribs. You hadn’t even stepped inside. Your fists had clenched, your throat had burned, and you had walked away without a sound. That night had been endless. You hadn’t slept, couldn’t: every time you shut your eyes, you saw him, maybe smiling at someone else, maybe touching someone else, and it drove you insane. By dawn, you were a wreck, dark circles under your eyes, exhaustion crawling through your body like poison.

Race day. Crowds, cameras, pressure higher than ever. The managers talked, droned on about safety and tactics, but you weren’t listening. Your hands trembled in your lap, your helmet heavy in your grip, your body screaming for rest you hadn’t given it. Everything blurred into the pressure of expectation. Guests. Cameras. The kind of race where mistakes carved themselves into careers. Minho was ready for it, he always was, but when he saw you that morning, pale with exhaustion, your shoulders stiff under your gear, he knew you hadn’t slept. Your hands trembled as you adjusted your gloves, and though you stared at the safety officer like you were listening, your eyes were glassy, red-rimmed. He clenched his jaw and forced himself to look away, but guilt prickled at his chest like needles.

After the briefing ended, everyone filed out in groups, chatter bouncing off the walls. You were the last one, helmet dangling loosely from your hand, your walk slower than usual. Minho had lingered on purpose. He leaned against the hood of your car in the garage, arms crossed, waiting. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly above, casting the space in sterile shadows. When your eyes found him, you stopped dead in your tracks. And when you did, when the dim light hit your face and he saw the redness in your eyes, the sleeplessness written all over you, his chest clenched so tight he could barely breathe.

“Why do your eyes look like that?” he asked, voice low, rough. “Did you not sleep all night?”