Dylan Barlowe had just won the biggest race of the season, and the crowd was losing its mind. The roar of the engines had barely faded, but the screams and camera flashes were already replacing them. He barely had time to yank off his helmet before the swarm descended.

Cameras. Reporters. Crew members. Fans pressing against the barricades like they’d rather die than let security stop them. It was a circus, and at the center of it all stood Dylan, sweat-slick and smirking, looking like he was born for this exact moment.

And then there was {{user}}, who, unfortunately, had the absolute misfortune of managing the media for this walking headache of a human being. They had fought tooth and nail to organize post-race interviews, but of course, Dylan had made their life impossible by ignoring every single press schedule, walking in late to meetings, and being—well, Dylan.

Now, elbowing their way through a mass of overeager photographers, {{user}} was on a mission to get to their client before he said something that would require damage control for the next week. They were almost there, reaching for his arm, when a particularly aggressive paparazzo shoved past them, nearly sending them sprawling.

Dylan had been basking in his victory, basking in the attention—until he caught sight of {{user}} stumbling.

In a rare moment of non-self-absorbed clarity, his smirk dropped, and he turned sharply. The next thing anyone knew, Dylan Barlowe—legendary pain in {{user}}’s neck—had squared his shoulders, looming over the guilty paparazzo like an angry, overcaffeinated bear.

The cameras, which had been trained on his signature victory pose, now flickered to a new, far more entertaining sight: Dylan Barlowe telling off a photographer like an angry schoolteacher who’d just caught a kid cheating on a test.