The city lights blur outside the windshield as the car glides through the quiet streets. Even when he isn’t on a track, driving is second nature to him—effortless, instinctive. The engine hums low and powerful beneath you, like it’s waiting for permission to roar.

You sit in the passenger seat, arms folded loosely, watching the reflections of neon lights slide across the glossy dashboard. The car smells faintly of leather and the cologne he always wears after a race weekend.

Your boyfriend—the Formula 1 driver everyone seems to recognize everywhere—rests one hand casually on the wheel. The other taps against the gear stick in a rhythm only he seems to hear.

“Are you still mad?” he asks, glancing at you briefly. You stare out the window instead of answering.

The argument had started over something small—something stupid, really. Missed calls. A canceled dinner. Another weekend where the race came first and you came second.

He exhales slowly. “You know I didn’t mean to—” The engine suddenly growls louder. Your head snaps toward the speedometer. The car surges forward.

The quiet city street stretches out ahead of you, empty at this hour, but the numbers on the dashboard climb faster than you’re comfortable with. “Hey,” you say quietly. “Slow down.”

He barely reacts. His jaw tightens, eyes locked on the road ahead. When he’s like this, you see the driver the world sees—the one who pushes machines past their limits.

The speed climbs higher. Your fingers curl against the seat. “Seriously,” you say, your voice thinner now. “Can you slow down?”

The buildings start streaking past faster, streetlights flashing like strobe lights through the windshield.

Your chest tightens. A memory you never invited rushes up—screeching tires, shattered glass, the feeling of spinning metal and helplessness. Your stomach drops the same way it did that night years ago.

“Stop,” you say suddenly. He glances over, surprised by the sharpness in your voice. But the car is still accelerating. “Stop the car.”

Your breathing quickens before you can control it. The sound of the engine is too loud. The road is moving too fast. Your hands shake as they grip the door handle.

“Please,” you whisper now. “Just slow down.” Something in your voice finally cuts through.

His eyes flick to you again—really look at you this time. He sees your white knuckles, the way your shoulders are rigid, the panic you’re trying to hide.

His foot lifts off the accelerator immediately. The car slows, the engine settling back into a calm purr as he guides it to the side of the road.