“You always do this—make everything about you!” your boyfriend snapped, voice sharp over the roar of engines.

You frowned. “I just wanted us to enjoy today.”

He stood up abruptly, jaw clenched. “I’m done.” He stormed off, leaving you alone in the stadium's sitting area, surrounded by cheers that now felt distant.

You sat there, stunned, trying to focus on the race, heart pounding louder than the engines. When it ended, the crowd poured out like a tide. You followed slowly, eyes on the ground, trying to keep it together.

Then, chaos.

Media swarmed near the exit, cameras flashing, pushing past. You tried to squeeze through—but someone shoved too hard. You lost your balance, stepping back onto someone behind you.

“Ah—!” they grunted.

You gasped, turning just in time to feel a hand on your arm, steadying you.

Your eyes met his.

Cyrus Irvine.

Time froze. The media hushed, watching. He stood there in a black suit, tousled hair slightly damp, one hand still on your arm, the other catching himself.

“You alright?” he asked, voice calm, steady.

“I—I didn’t mean to…” you stammered.

He straightened, offering a reassuring smile. “It’s okay. Just… try not to fall for me all at once.”

Your lips parted in surprise. He gave a quiet chuckle, still holding your gaze.

“Let’s get you out of here,” he said, gently guiding you away from the crowd.