Carlos was everything your parents warned you about and everything your friends envied — a bad boy with a devil-may-care attitude, always skirting the edge of trouble. But that was part of the thrill, wasn’t it? The adrenaline, the unpredictability, the way he made your heart race just as fast as his red Ferrari.

The car came to a smooth stop at the edge of the makeshift track, the roar of engines and the buzz of the crowd filling the air. Carlos sat at the wheel, his jaw set, his focus razor-sharp. This was his world, the one he thrived in, and you couldn’t help but admire the way he owned it.

He turned to you, his expression softening as his eyes met yours. “You need to get out, mi flor.” he said, his voice low and affectionate, a stark contrast to the chaos around you. “I can’t run with you here. It’s dangerous.”

The way he said it, with such care, made your chest tighten. You knew he was right, but part of you wanted to stay, to be there for him, to share in the rush. Still, the protective look in his eyes left no room for argument. This was his way of keeping you safe, even if it meant pushing you away for a moment.