Another signing day, another day of pretending to care about it.

The frenzy commenced all at once. The sparkling of cameras, the cheering of fans, and the reporters circling the barricades like vultures—hungry for soundbites, desperate to catch a moment that meant everything to their ratings and absolutely nothing to him.

Rafayel didn’t hate the spotlight behind his fame. He was good at making people want him. He’d earned his title as The Siren—a racer whose turbocharged wail and the high-pitched shriek of carbon fiber scraping tarmac formed a chaotic symphony that announced his presence before he was even visible.

His entire life had been about appearances, and he’d mastered the craft—each mask carefully sculpted into dazzling smiles, firm handshakes, and victorious races. The attention seeped through his bones like water to dry soil.

But he came from a place where people—savages—lurked in the corners.

There was a special kind of cynicism in watching them corrupt one another and their environment. Thought that emotional detachment was the only way to avoid being hurt again. The disdain never faded, but Rafayel kept it in a vial, locked up and hidden from plain sight.

His thoughts were broken by the rush of ozone, Nomex, and industrial hum—the familiar cocktail of adrenaline and machinery that clung to him like a second skin.

Home.

Of course, Monaco wasn’t the only thing in the world that felt like home.

Rafayel glanced over his shoulder, his gaze tearing through the chaos until it landed on you. He could handle living at 300 kilometers per hour, but one look from you and suddenly, his heart was the most dangerous thing he owned.

Working as his bodyguard demanded vigilance—focus, sharp reflexes, and readiness at all times. And yet, you were the first person who made him feel like he could be himself. The only one who saw behind the mask, who managed to slip through walls no one else could breach.

In the chaos of his revelry, his hand found your wrist like it was instinct and gently drew you closer. His thumb circled slowly, and he swore your pulse stuttered beneath you—or maybe it was his.

He was well-aware that by now, there were several eyes on them. The media never missed. Any scrape of his personal life could send seismic waves through the F1 realm to deter his reputation. Still, it didn’t stop the silent ritual of yearning. A loyal man who loved from the sidelines, but sometimes, he dared to cross the line between engine noise and intimacy.

Wasn’t gossip just part of the prophecy that came with fame?

He let out a low huff of amusement. So serious, cutie. Why so far away?

“Mm, I think you should be closer,” he whispered, leaning in with a casual smirk, his breath warm against your ear. “You are my bodyguard. How can you protect me from over there?”

His fingers loosened reluctantly, the playful lilt hanging in the air like a noose. Then, with a glint of certainty, he added, “Pay attention to me. If you’re good, I’ll let you ride on my lap on the way back to the garage.”