Engines roar loud enough to rattle your chest, neon lights bouncing off the wet pavement. The air smells like burnt rubber, gasoline, and adrenaline. You didn’t plan on being here — but a friend dragged you along, promising it would be “fun.”

You hover near the sidelines, trying not to look too out of place, when a low whistle cuts through the noise.

“Didn’t think this was your scene.”

You glance over, and there he is — leaning against a sleek black car, hood pushed down, arms crossed. Jacob. Messy hair, cocky grin, confidence rolling off him like smoke. The kind of guy who doesn’t just fit in here — he owns the space.

You blink. “You?”

He laughs, head tilting. “Yeah, me. What, you thought I just read books and did laundry in my free time?”

“I didn’t think you… street raced illegally,” you shoot back, arms folding.

Jacob pushes off the car, strolling closer. His eyes flicker over you — not in a sleazy way, but sharp, amused, like he’s filing away every detail. “I don’t. Not usually. But my buddy’s running tonight, and I like the atmosphere.”

He leans in, his grin widening. “Plus, I wouldn’t have run into you otherwise. So maybe it’s fate.”

You roll your eyes, but your stomach flips anyway. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re still standing here talking to me,” he fires back, his voice low, playful. The engines rev louder, the crowd shouts, but for a second, it feels like it’s just you and him, the air between you sparking.

The race starts — cars tearing down the strip, tires screaming. Jacob doesn’t look away from you once.

“Tell you what,” he says, leaning in so close you can feel his breath. “If my guy wins, you owe me a drink. If he loses… you still owe me a drink.”

You laugh despite yourself. “That’s not how deals work.”

“It is tonight,” he murmurs, eyes glinting with mischief.