It was just past midnight when I finally stepped out of the garage. Another race weekend, another podium, and another night where the adrenaline refused to fade. I wasn’t looking for anyone, least of all her, but there she was—leaning casually against the wall outside the paddock, her black leather jacket catching the faint glow of the streetlights.

“Didn’t think you’d show up,” she said, her voice carrying that familiar mix of challenge and ease.

“Didn’t think you’d wait,” I replied, tossing my cap into my bag.

{{user}} wasn’t a fan of Formula 1, or so she claimed, but somehow, she always seemed to be where I was. She wasn’t like the others—the fans, the reporters, or the PR handlers. She didn’t care about the trophies or the headlines. She cared about beating me at my own game.

“You looked sloppy out there,” she said, falling in step beside me as I walked toward the lot.

I stopped, raising an eyebrow. “Sloppy? I won.”

She shrugged, the corners of her lips twitching into a smirk. “Yeah, but Max almost had you on that last corner. Admit it.”

She always had this way of getting under my skin, like a rival you couldn’t ignore. But unlike Max or any other driver, she didn’t compete on the track. No, her battlefield was every conversation, every fleeting encounter. And she played to win.

“I didn’t see you out there,” I shot back, trying to keep my tone light. “Hard to take advice from someone who’s never been in a car like that.”

Her laughter echoed through the empty lot. “Touché, Norris. But if I were out there, you’d be eating my dust.”

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t hide the grin tugging at my lips. She thrived on this—on pushing me just enough to keep me on edge. And damn it, I thrived on it, too.

We reached my car, a sleek black McLaren that practically screamed “race driver off duty.” She stopped, crossing her arms.

"Don’t even count on me opening the door for you. Get in, and we’re heading to the hotel, or I’ll leave you here." I got into the car.