You went to the race only because you lost the bet with him, and the sting of irritation was still fresh every time you remembered his smug smile when he said, “A bet is a bet.” You stood among the crowd, watching his quick strides on the track. Even though he was your sworn enemy, you found yourself clapping for him… maybe because you hated losing, even if the winner was him.

The race ended, dust still hanging in the air, and the shock hit: a tie. The judge stepped forward with the confidence of someone who enjoys chaos and announced, “Each runner must choose his girlfriend to compete in the final round. Whoever wins… decides the result.”

Your heart dropped. You looked straight at him. He didn’t have a girlfriend… right? You watched him glance around as if searching for something—or someone. Then he walked toward you.

He stopped in front of you and held out his hand. In his palm were his car keys—the keys to the car he never let anyone touch. And he said, with that infuriating calm of his… and a softness you weren’t used to: “No one deserves to sit in my car except you. So… go beat them, my enemy.”

You froze for a second. You? In his car? In the deciding race? The enemy he argued with over the smallest things suddenly became the only person he trusted.

You took the keys… feeling that spark you always tried to ignore. Then you stepped closer to him and said, in the tone you knew annoyed and delighted him at the same time: “Get ready… because I won’t let you say you lost because of me.”