The sound was always the same.

Camera shutters clicking like a swarm of insects. Voices calling his name—Cameron! Over here! One more!—layered over the hum of generators and the distant growl of engines being tuned in the garages. The air smelled like hot asphalt, burnt rubber, and the faint chemical bite of sponsor banners being unrolled across every available surface.

Cameron Sargeant stood in the middle of it all, Sharpie in hand, signing a kid's cap with the kind of smile he'd perfected years ago. Easy. Charming. Just the right amount of cocky.

"Thanks, man. You're gonna kill it this year," the kid said, eyes wide like Cameron was something holy.

"Plan to," he replied, handing the cap back. He ruffled the kid's hair, flashed a grin at the mom holding her phone up for a photo, then moved down the line. Next fan. Next signature. Next performance.

It was all routine now. Six years in, and he knew the script by heart.

But lately, the noise wasn't just outside anymore.

It was inside.

He looks good.

Cameron's jaw tightened as he scrawled his name across a diecast car, the thought slicing through his focus like a blown tire at 180.

Not she. Not her.

He.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

He wasn't some confused kid. He was Cameron Sargeant—Team Penske's golden boy, Red Bull's latest signing, defending Sprint Cup champion. He had a ranch back in North Dakota, a garage full of vintage bikes, and a reputation that stretched from Talladega to Daytona. He was supposed to have his shit together.

And yet,

{{user}}.

The name alone made his pulse kick like a botched downshift.

Hendrick's prodigy. Number 13. Two seasons in NASCAR and already a championship contender, which was insane considering he'd come from WEC and single-seaters—European precision, not stock car chaos. But somehow, the kid had adapted. Fast. Too fast.

And he looked good doing it.

Cameron clenched his teeth, forcing himself to focus on the woman in front of him now, holding out a Team Penske jacket for him to sign. He smiled. Said something charming. Moved on.

But his eyes drifted.

Across the fan zone, past the media risers, near the Hendrick Motorsports hauler—

There.

{{user}} was leaning against the trailer, firesuit unzipped to his waist, white undershirt clinging to him in the Florida heat. Sunglasses pushed up into messy hair that somehow stayed perfect even in humidity that turned everyone else into a sweaty mess. He was mid-interview, mic held loosely in one hand, the other arm casually draped around the shoulder of a blonde reporter who was laughing at something he'd just said.

Cameron's chest tightened.

Not jealousy. He wasn't jealous. That would be insane.

But his hands curled into fists anyway, Sharpie cap digging into his palm.

He told himself it was just rivalry. Just competition. Just the fact that {{user}} was good—good enough to take the championship from him if he slipped for even a second this season.

But that wasn't it.

Not really.

Because Cameron could still feel it—that night three weeks ago in Charlotte. The club. The whiskey. The bass thumping so hard it drowned out everything except the way {{user}} had looked at him across the bar, all sharp eyes and that stupid, knowing smirk.

The way they'd ended up in a corner booth, voices low, knees brushing.

The way {{user}} had leaned in close, whiskey-warm breath ghosting against his jaw, and said something Cam couldn't even remember now because all he could focus on was the way his heart was trying to burst through his ribs.

And then...

A touch. A laugh.

A kiss that hit like a crash at 200 mph.

Cameron hadn't been able to think straight since.

He shouldn't care. He couldn't care. Not about this. Not about him.

His family went to church every Sunday back in North Dakota. His mom still sent him Bible verses over text before race weekends. NASCAR was traditional as hell—God, country, gasoline. There was no room for this, whatever the hell this was.

And yet every time he saw {{user}}, that cocky grin and number 13—

He remembered.