The roar of engines still echoed faintly through the paddock walls, mixed with distant cheers from the grandstands and the constant buzz of reporters outside the garage. The heat of the race hadn’t faded yet — not from the asphalt, and definitely not from the atmosphere inside the team.

Because of course it had ended like this.

Again.

The garage doors slid shut behind Shoto Todoroki as mechanics scattered awkwardly out of the way, pretending not to notice the tension thick enough to choke on.

The monitors still displayed the final standings:

P2 — Shoto Todoroki P3 — {{user}}

A podium for the team. And yet nobody looked happy about it.

Shoto pulled his gloves off with sharp, irritated movements, tossing them onto the table harder than necessary before finally looking over at you. Half of his hair was damp with sweat from the race, the fluorescent garage lights reflecting against the icy blue of his fireproof suit.

“You ignored team orders.”

His voice was calm. Too calm. Which honestly made it worse. A mechanic nearby immediately found something VERY important to do across the garage. Shoto stepped closer, helmet still tucked beneath his arm.

“They told you to hold position.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Instead, you tried overtaking me in the last three laps.”

The memory replayed instantly: the two of you wheel-to-wheel at nearly 300 km/h, tires nearly touching through the corner while the pit wall collectively lost their minds over the radio.

You’d almost crashed.

Again.

But neither of you backed down. Shoto let out a quiet breath through his nose, clearly trying — and failing — to keep composed.

“You could’ve ruined the race for both of us just because your ego couldn’t handle staying behind me.” Another pause. Then, colder:

“Do you have any idea how exhausting it is having you as a teammate?”

The question should’ve sounded purely annoyed.

Instead, there was something strangely personal buried underneath it.

Before you could answer, the garage television suddenly replayed the overtake attempt from multiple camera angles, commentators practically screaming over the footage.

“You compromised both our races for your ego,” Shoto said.

“And you’re mad because I won.”

“I’m mad because you drive like crashing is a hobby.”

That finally made you stand.

The room suddenly felt much smaller as you crossed your arms, glaring at him from only a few feet away.

“You had space.”

“You took space.”

“You’re impossible to race against.”

A dry laugh escaped him then—quiet, humorless. “That’s interesting coming from you.”

Then, the door opened suddenly.

The team manager, looking one second away from a stress-induced heart-attack.

"Media room. Both of you. Now."

"Try not to embarrass the team this time." Shoto muttered as he passed by your side.