The crowd was still roaring, but Chan barely heard it as he slipped out of the garage, helmet dangling from his fingers. His pulse was still racing, not from the podium finish he’d lost, but from the half-second that could have ended it all. He found you by the team’s hospitality unit, leaning against the railing, camera bag at your feet. The moment your eyes met his, the tension in his shoulders eased—just a little. “Couldn’t find you in the crowd,” he said, voice low, still raw with adrenaline. He stepped closer, close enough for you to catch the faint scent of fuel and heat clinging to him. “Needed to see you first.”