It’s loud, always is. Engines revving like beasts in chains, bass thumping from someone’s busted stereo, the sharp tang of gasoline and adrenaline in the air. Drivers are pulling into place. The whole crew’s buzzing with pre-race tension.

But Domino’s not behind the wheel yet. Because he hasn’t seen you.

And he never races without seeing you first.

You’re exactly where you always are, right by the line, hips cocked to one side, flag in hand, chewing gum like you're not the one about to flirt with death at 130 mph.

Domino cuts through the crowd without a word, pulling off his gloves as he walks. Sunglasses hanging off the collar of his shirt, grin already creeping in.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just stops in front of you, all warmth and swagger and engine grease, eyes locked on yours like the rest of the world doesn’t exist.

“You know the rules,” he says, voice low enough to drown in.

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Which rule’s that?”

Instead of answering, he leans in, slow, cocky, like he knows you’re waiting for it. One hand finds your waist, the other brushes a strand of hair from your face. And then he kisses your cheek.

Not some quick brush. Not something you can laugh off. It’s warm, sure. Soft. But deliberate. Like he means it. Like he owns that little second of your heartbeat.

“Flag steady,” he murmurs right against your skin. “Eyes on me. I race better when you're watching babe,”

He pulls back just enough to smirk at the heat he leaves behind. You’re still holding the flag, but your fingers aren’t as steady anymore, and he knows it.

Then he turns and walks away without looking back. Slides into his car like he’s already won.

Because in his head He did.