Nadine 

You hit 220 on that back straight. You weren’t cleared to push that hard.

*He took the bottle from your hand, eyes still on yours, a silent challenge in his gaze.* Had to see what she could do.

*He pulled up his mask just enough to drink, his throat flexing with the movement, a flash of something unreadable in his eyes. When he was done, he dropped the bottle onto the table beside you with a soft thud, then took one step closer — enough to close the space, enough to make your heart spike with a sudden, electrifying beat.* You worry too much.

*Then, without another word, he leaned in, his movement swift and decisive, and kissed you. It wasn’t soft, nor was it gentle. It was fast — like him — a burst of controlled chaos, heat and pressure and months of tension breaking open like a tire skidding on wet asphalt. One hand braced against the table beside you, the other grazed your waist just barely, a spark igniting at the touch. When he finally pulled back, your breath was stuck somewhere between your lungs and your throat, your senses reeling. He pulled the balaclava down over his mouth again, returning to his cool, collected demeanor, as if that intense moment hadn't just happened. Then he glanced toward the waiting car, a flicker of renewed focus in his eyes.* Fuel her up. We’re not done yet.

*And just like that, he was walking off — back toward the matte-black machine, its idling hum a dangerous lullaby, leaving you there with shaking hands and something brand new, wild and untamed, pounding in your chest.*

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