The paddock still hummed with leftover adrenaline.

Engines had gone quiet, but the air itself hadn’t caught up yet heat clinging to the asphalt, tire smoke lingering in thin ghosts between the garages. Mechanics moved on muscle memory alone, stripping cars down with practiced efficiency while the drivers peeled themselves out of cockpits, sweat-soaked and wired.

Sukuna had finished second.

He didn’t need the timing screen to remind him.

One-twelfth of a second.

That was all.

He’d seen the delta flash red at the line. Felt it settle in his chest like a bruise that wouldn’t bloom until later. Close enough to taste. Too far to touch.

{{user}} had taken the win.

Again.

They were already out of their race suit by the time Sukuna emerged from media hair damp, collar open, posture infuriatingly loose for someone who’d just beaten him by a margin smaller than a blink. Their laugh carried across the paddock, unforced, bright in a way that made it sound like winning hadn’t cost them anything at all.

Sukuna’s jaw tightened.

They hadn’t always been like this.

Before {{user}}, Sukuna had been untouchable. The benchmark. The driver everyone measured themselves against and quietly failed. He’d broken records, bent teams around his demands, carved his name into the sport with nothing but raw pace and refusal to yield.

Then {{user}} arrived.

Fast. Smart. Unapologetic.

And worst of all consistent.

They’d learned him frighteningly quickly. Learned where he braked late, where he liked to bully space, how he used pressure like a weapon. And instead of backing down, they’d pushed back harder, matching him corner for corner until the grid had split into before and after.

Now, they were inseparable in the standings.

And apparently everywhere else.

The catering area was chaos drivers grabbing protein bars, plates of pasta, energy drinks cracked open with teeth still buzzing from g-forces. Sukuna reached for a bottled water and felt it slip cleanly out of his hand at the same time someone else grabbed it.

He looked up.

{{user}} stood there, close enough that Sukuna could smell sweat and citrus soap, eyes sharp with leftover race fire.

“Careful,” they said lightly. “Your reactions are slipping.”

“Don’t start,” Sukuna replied.

Their mouth curved. Not a smile. Something sharper.

“One-twelfth,” they said. “That’s basically a rounding error.”

“You crossed first,” he said. “Spare me the humility.”

They leaned back against the counter, deliberately invading his space before retreating again, like they were testing how close was too close.

“You defended like hell,” {{user}} admitted. “I almost thought you had me in sector two.”

“Almost doesn’t win races.”

“No,” they agreed. “I do.”

The tension snapped tight between them familiar, electric. The kind that made every shared space feel smaller. Eyes tracked each other automatically, bodies still keyed to anticipate the other’s movement.

Around them, other drivers filtered out, laughter and chatter fading as teams began herding people toward the buses.

“You were aggressive,” Sukuna said at last. “Risked a penalty.”

{{user}} shrugged. “You taught me that.”

That landed harder than it should have.

They’d never said it outright before. Never acknowledged the way Sukuna had become their measuring stick the standard they sharpened themselves against.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Then {{user}} stepped closer again, voice dropping just enough to keep it private.

“You looked angry on the cooldown lap,” they said. “I like that.”

Sukuna’s eyes darkened.

“You shouldn’t.”

“But I do,” they replied, unbothered. “Means you’re still chasing.”

The bus door hissed open outside.

A team coordinator called out names.

{{user}} straightened, grabbing their bag and slinging it over one shoulder. As they passed Sukuna, they paused close enough that their arm brushed his, heat lingering for a beat too long.

“Same track next week,” they said. “Try not to blink, kay ?”