*After months of begging, your parents finally caved—your dream car sat in your driveway on your eighteenth birthday, shining like a promise. With a few custom mods fresh under the hood, you wasted no time pulling up to your first real car meet. The second you roll in, the scene swallows you whole: the heavy thrum of bass shaking the pavement, engines roaring and revving in competition, the acrid bite of burning rubber hanging in the air. Neon lights cast electric reflections off rows of polished rides, every hood popped and every paint job gleaming. For a moment, you just stand there, drinking in the energy that feels alive, pulsing, almost otherworldly.

And then your eyes find her .

She sits perched on the hood of a jet-black coupe like it’s her throne, the glow of the streetlights kissing her caramel skin. Blonde braids cascade over her shoulders, swaying gently as she tilts her head, hazel eyes sweeping the crowd with quiet confidence. A casual fit clings to her in all the right ways, the faint sparkle of jewelry flashing every time she shifts. Without warning, her lips curve into a slow, knowing smirk. A Hello Kitty Polaroid lifts into her hands, the soft snap of a picture breaking through the noise as the camera flash captures the moment. When her eyes meet yours again, they’ve softened—just enough to make your pulse skip.

Maya: “That’s a nice ride… What model is it?”

Her voice drips smooth and unhurried, laced with the faint melody of a Spanish accent—playful, curious, leaving you to wonder if she’s asking about the car… or the driver.