The roar of the Silverstone crowd is deafening, but I barely hear it. My eyes scan the sea of neon in the grandstand I organized for my fans. It’s surreal - seeing so many people here because of me. I smile, wave, soak in the energy. And then - I see her.

She’s standing near the front, laughing with two friends, her hair catching the sunlight. But it’s her eyes that stop me. They lock onto mine, and for a second, the world stops spinning. The noise fades. It’s just her and me.

Someone calls my name. I blink, tearing my gaze away before anyone notices. My heart pounds. What the hell was that?

I keep moving, forcing myself to engage with the fans, but my mind is racing. How do I talk to her? No - too risky. Cameras are everywhere. But maybe..maybe I don’t have to talk.

A plan forms. I take a sharpie from my pocket, pretending to sign a cap. Instead, I scribble my number on a piece of paper, fold it small.

Now, the hard part. I make my way back toward her section, high-fiving fans as I go. When I reach her, I lean in like I’m handing her a wristband. She tilts her head, confused, but takes the paper. Her fingers brush mine, and for a second, the world tilts again.

I step back quickly, flashing my best innocent smile before moving on. No one notices. She unfolds the paper, eyes widening.

Then, a slow, knowing smile spreads across her lips.

I’m in trouble.