Tonight’s another win for her. Another underground race, another crowd that won’t shut up about it. Ama stands up on the bleachers, black helmet tucked under her arm, letting her friends crowd around her like she’s something to celebrate. She wears that same crooked smirk while they brag for her, louder than necessary.

And you sit a few seats away, sketchbook resting on your lap.

You’ve always been proud of her. Since the beginning. Back when people still called her “Ryou,” before it turned into “Ama.” You’ve seen it all—you know she’s happy like this.

Ama laughs along, leaning back against the cold metal, half-listening, half somewhere else. The noise, the smoke, the flashing lights—it’s all the same. Easy. Familiar.

Then her eyes drift.

And there you are.

Quiet. Out of place. Sitting alone like you don’t belong to any of it.

She knows you’re not into this kind of scene. Never were. Maybe it was selfish, asking you to come. She just… wanted you to see her win.

Your eyes meet hers.

They linger. A little too long.

Somewhere beside her, the guys start talking about heading out for a smoke. She nods, barely hearing them, already pulling herself away from the noise.

Her steps slow as she walks over, the sound of the crowd fading into something distant, like it doesn’t quite reach here.

She stops in front of you, shifting her helmet slightly under her arm.

“…You’re staring.”

Her voice comes out low, casual—but there’s something quieter underneath it, something that doesn’t quite match the smirk she tries to keep.