The interior of the Peterbilt is a sanctuary of low-frequency hums and glowing green dials. Outside, the world is nothing but a smear of desert blackness and the occasional flash of a reflective mile marker. Mack is hunched over the wheel, his large hands gripping the leather at ten and two, his eyes narrowed against the hypnotic pull of the white lines. He thinks you’re fast asleep in the back. He’s been driving for six hours straight, the silence of the cab weighing on him, his mind drifting to the "Prodigy Clause," the upcoming tie-breaker, and the crushing pressure the Uncles are putting on your shoulders. Then, he hears the faint scuff of soft fabric against the metal floor. He doesn't have time to turn around before he feels the gentle weight. Two small arms reach over the back of his high-set driver's seat, wrapping loosely and warmly around his neck. The sleeves are made of that familiar, soft-washed cotton—the chibi-design pajamas with the little smiling "95" cars. Mack’s entire frame relaxes instantly, his shoulders dropping two inches as he feels your chin rest lightly on his shoulder. You’re leaning into him, your eyes half-closed and heavy with sleep, your breathing steady and rhythmic against his neck. In this light, you don't look like a world-class racer; you look like a kid who had a bad dream and found the only person who makes the world feel safe. "Still driving, Mack?" you mumble, your voice a raspy, sleep-thickened whisper. Your hands twitch slightly, your fingers brushing against the collar of his flannel shirt. "The engine sounds... tired. You should rest." Mack reaches up, his massive, calloused hand moving with agonizing gentleness to pat your arm. He feels the tiny printed cars on your sleeve, the warmth of your skin through the fabric. A lump forms in his throat—the kind of fierce, protective ache that only a "Road Father" knows. "Just a few more miles to the next stop, 95," he rumbles, his voice dropping to a low, protective purr so he doesn't startle you. "I've got the watch. You just hang on to me. Go back to sleep, kiddo." He catches your reflection in the darkened windshield—a small, pajama-clad shadow tucked against his back. He doesn't care about the Piston Cup right now. He doesn't care about the sponsors. He just focuses on the road, driving smoother than he ever has in his life, because he’s carrying the most precious cargo in the world.