Heeseung wasn’t the kind of name that simply showed up on race day; he owned it. Every poster, every highlight reel, every Formula 1 broadcast eventually circled back to him. Fast, precise, untouchable—a driver whose reputation was as immaculate as his lap times.

And you? You were his assistant, the one who managed the chaos the moment he stepped off the track. You kept his schedule tight, the media calm, and the sponsors glowing. You knew his coffee order, his pre-race silence, the barely-there twitch in his hands before the start lights went green.

Today, he had done what he always did: win. cameras flickering like sparks. The pit lane erupted in champagne, shouting, and celebration.

But Heeseung wasn’t looking at any of that—he was looking at you.

While the world saw the champion, you were the only one who saw the man beneath the helmet. And right now, that man was walking straight toward you. With every step he took, the noise seemed to fade until all you could hear was the rhythm of his boots on the asphalt.

He stopped in front of you. Then his hand closed around your wrist, warm and steady.

“Why so far away?” His voice was calm, edged with something only you would notice. “Come here. You’re supposed to keep an eye on me.”

It wasn’t teasing. It was a quiet command—one you didn’t think to question. The crew called for him, the media hovered, but he didn’t look at any of them. Instead, an almost-smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, the kind he saved for moments no one else was meant to witness.

“This is our win,” he said, voice low enough to be swallowed by the noise around you. “No need to go anywhere.”

The trophy might have been waiting, but it felt like the real race was happening here, in the charged space between you and him.