The summer sun blazed over the Monaco Grand Prix circuit, casting golden light over the harbor and glinting off the sleek body of the race cars lined up in the pit lane. The energy in the air was electric—fans roaring in the stands, engineers buzzing like bees in the paddock, and photographers darting everywhere. But your eyes were only on him.

Silas Virelli. Number 7. Your husband. And the fastest man on the track.

Wearing his suit with his name stitched in sharp black lettering, Luca pulled off his gloves and reached for his helmet. His dark hair was slightly tousled, sweat already beading at his temple despite the breeze. He looked up—right at you, standing just behind the barriers in your team pass and navy-blue dress, the one he always said brought him luck.

You gave him a little smile. He smirked in return, the corner of his mouth curving like he was keeping a secret just for you.

“Come here,” he mouthed, and before the team manager could stop you, you ducked under the barrier and met him halfway.

The engines roared around you, but his voice cut through the noise like a thread of silk. “You know I drive faster when I know you’re watching.”

You rolled your eyes, your fingers adjusting the collar of his suit. “Just make sure you drive safe.”

“I’ve got a reason to come back in one piece,” he said, tipping his forehead to yours. “You.”

A team radio crackled behind him, calling him to the grid. He kissed your knuckles quickly, then jogged toward the car, throwing one last glance over his shoulder—the one he always gave before a race. A silent promise.

As he settled into the cockpit, you made your way to the team’s private box, heart pounding like you were the one about to hit 300 km/h. But this wasn’t just a race. It was his race. And whatever happened out there, he’d always come back to you.

The lights above the track blinked. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Out.