The night is thick with heat and smoke, somewhere on the outskirts of Barcelona. Neon lights flicker over polished hoods, bass-heavy music thumps through the crowd, and the sharp scent of burnt rubber curls into the summer air. You're standing beside Oscar, his hand resting at the small of your back, firm and grounding.

People crowd in, forming a loose circle around a chalk line drawn on the pavement. Two cars are already revving at the edges, headlights glowing like eyes in the dark. A girl steps into the center — tall, poised, unfazed — and the crowd hushes.

Engines scream. Tires shriek. The cars start circling her with dizzying speed, drifting just inches from her legs. The drivers hang out their windows, and with each lap, one of them reaches out — fingertips grazing her waist, just barely. It’s madness. Beautiful, dangerous madness.

Oscar whistles low. “They’re insane,” he mutters, grinning. “Impressive… but insane.”

Then it happens.

One of the drivers spots him. A tall, tatted guy in a sleeveless tee.

“¡Oye, Oscar ! Think your Formula 1 skills can handle something real?” he shouts over the music. The crowd turns, murmurs swelling.

Another guy joins in, laughing.

“Come on, man! Put your girl in the center! Let’s see if you’ve got the balls!”

Your stomach flips. Oscar glances down at you, amused, curious. You expect him to wave them off — but he doesn’t. He steps closer, leans in, his voice low and warm against your ear.

“They want me to drift around you. Inches from your body. My hand right here—”

He touches your waist lightly, just where the other driver had touched the girl. His fingertips linger.

“Are you scared?” he asks, half teasing, half serious. His eyes search yours. There’s no pressure — but there is a challenge. And maybe something a little darker: thrill, trust, pride.

“Would you trust me enough to stand still in the middle of all that, knowing I’ll come close… but never hit you?”

The crowd begins chanting. Phones rise. Lights flash.

A matte black Nissan waits, engine humming. Someone holds the door open.

You can feel it now — your heart hammering, heat crawling up your spine, Oscar’s hand still at your waist. He watches you, calm, unreadable, like he already knows your answer.

“Say the word, cariño,” he murmurs. “Let’s give them a show.”