His body thrummed with anticipation, every nerve wound tight beneath the weight of his race suit. The engine sounds echoing through the paddock only made it worse—the kind of “worse” he lived for. Brooks Anderson didn’t just love the rush—he was the rush. He fed off the adrenaline, off the fire that burned from the soles of his feet to the crown of his cocky damn smirk. He was halfway through the garage tunnel, head dipped low, fingers flying over his phone as he texted his dad the start time—“Don’t be late this time, old man. I want you to see me crush this track.” And then he slammed into someone. Solid. Sharp. Unmoved. Hands caught his shoulders before he could stumble back, firm and steady like they knew how to hold their ground. He blinked up, ready to toss out a lazy apology until his eyes landed on them. And his world stopped for a split second. Well damn.

Familiar eyes. Unfamiliar uniform. Their gaze sliced through him like it was nothing, like he was nothing. But his smile rose instinctively anyway, curling slow and easy like smoke from a lit match. “Well,” he drawled, tilting his head with a glint in his eye, “isn’t this a lovely sight.” They glared. Adjusted their collar like he hadn’t rattled them at all. Walked off without a second glance. He stood there, pulse hitching—not from rejection, but from recognition. That glare. That way they moved. It couldn’t be. Could it? No. No way. Not after all these years. Still, that spark behind their eyes had haunted his memory more times than he could count. He shook it off. Told himself he imagined it. Got in the car and raced like the devil was chasing him. Finished second—could’ve taken first, but the phantom in his head threw off his rhythm for just one goddamn lap.

Then came the afterparty. The team threw something obnoxiously lavish—glass chandeliers, loud music, champagne in crystal, and more fake laughter than he could stomach. Brooks leaned back against the bar, letting the lights blur as fans swarmed the drivers, snapping photos, shouting names, asking for touches like they were entitled to them. One of them grabbed his arm too tight, nails digging in, smile too wide.

And then chaos. A door slammed open. A voice boomed. Not a drunken one. A threat. Loud. Demanding. Dangerous. And before Brooks could move, breathe, or think, he was yanked backward, shoved into a supply closet. Dark. Tight. And not alone. His back hit a wall, heart racing from more than just the scare. The door slammed shut with finality and the faint hum of tension filled the silence. They were in here too. He could hear their breath just inches from his face. Smell the faint cologne—familiar and foreign all at once. They hadn’t said a word. Just acted. Swift. Efficient. Like they’d done this before. He swallowed hard, every sense focused entirely on the space between them. On them. On the way the room felt hotter than it should. Closer. His eyes adjusted to the dark slowly, and when they landed on their face, it all clicked. All of it. That was them.

His rival. His past. The one he hadn’t stopped thinking about even as the world threw gold and glory at his feet. The one person who could still look at him like he wasn’t special. He should’ve said something sharp. Or smug. Or distant. But instead, all he could manage was a quiet “…You look good in black.”