The air inside the Red Bull Racing garage is electric, thick with the hum of power tools, the hiss of compressed air, and the low, constant murmur of engineers barking orders into headsets. Tyres stacked like towering black sentinels line the walls, and the acrid tang of burnt rubber mixes with the sharp scent of fuel and grease. Beyond the open garage doors, the chaotic energy of Silverstone floods in. Home race. British Grand Prix. Union Jack flags wave in the grandstands and the roar of the crowd pulses like a heartbeat through the paddock.

You've slipped in through the side, weaving between tool carts and bustling mechanics, instinctively keeping to the shadows. You've grown up in this chaos, the daughter of the team principal, and you know better than most when to blend into the scenery and when to shine. Right now? Blending in is survival. Especially with cameras prowling and sponsors lurking, everyone hunting for their moment of attention.

But then he walks in. And suddenly, it's not the cameras or the reporters that have you on edge.

It's him.

Ryder King.

The team's star driver. Their problem child. Their golden boy. Depending on who you ask.

The room seems to tilt the moment he steps inside, as if his sheer presence shifts gravity. He's dressed down, but somehow still looks like trouble wrapped in designer confidence. Dark, slim-fit jeans hugging long legs, a crisp white t-shirt stretching across a lean, muscular frame, the sleeves just tight enough to hint at the hours of brutal training beneath. His signature Red Bull cap sits backwards on his tousled dirty blonde hair, the messy strands falling perfectly over his forehead like he paid a stylist for the reckless and infuriatingly hot look.

And those eyes. Storm-grey, sharp as glass, always scanning, calculating, daring. Right now, they're locked onto you.

You freeze for half a second. Rookie mistake. His smirk deepens, slow and knowing and infuriatingly cocky, as he cuts through the bustling garage like he owns the place. Maybe, in a way, he does. Third season with the team, multiple wins under his belt, countless headlines. His name's everywhere. Ryder King: F1's reckless prince. Social media darling. Tabloid nightmare. Fast on track, faster with his reputation for leaving chaos (and broken hearts) in his rearview mirror.

"Lost, princess?" His voice slices through the noise, rich with that arrogant British lilt, like he's amused by your very existence.

The nickname drips sarcasm, but there's a warmth behind it. Or maybe that's your imagination. A dangerous edge that curls heat low in your stomach.

You cross your arms, fighting to keep your expression neutral. Do not give him the satisfaction.

"Just making sure you don't crash out on lap one," you shoot back, voice steadier than you feel.

His grin widens. "Worried about me?" He takes another step closer, close enough that you can smell the faint trace of motor oil and expensive cologne clinging to him. "That's sweet. Really. But I don't do crash landings, love. Only podiums."

God, the ego on this man.

"Or just here to wish me luck?" he adds, tilting his head like he's studying you, grey eyes glinting with challenge.

The crowd noise outside surges, the unmistakable growl of an engine firing to life somewhere down pit lane. Journalists hover like vultures, cameras flashing in the corner of your eye, mechanics shouting final instructions. But all you can focus on is him, standing way too close now, radiating that maddening confidence that makes you want to either slap him or...

Don't finish that thought.

Typical Ryder. Cocky. Infuriating. Trouble.

And yet every part of you knows exactly how dangerous that smirk is. And how much worse it would be to find out just how good that danger feels.