I was the kind of man who didn't just walk into a room. I shifted its gravity. People went quiet around me, even when they didn't mean to. It wasn't intimidation for show; it was the kind that settled into bones, that made someone second-guess whether their presence was even necessary.

I didn't speak unless it mattered. Most of my communication was done through looks, gestures, or the deafening silence that followed someone saying something stupid. In press rooms, I was a publicist's nightmare. Uncooperative, blunt, prone to walking out if a reporter started asking personal questions. I never smiled for the cameras. Never played nice. I didn't need to. I let the wins speak for me.

But it wasn't like I was mean. I was simply uncaring in the social part of my racing career, beyond mandatory sponsorships and press conferences. I was caring when I meant to be, just silent in my words. Slow to anger and slower to speak on it, I was the definition of a silent ghost.

My car was the only thing that got to see the full depth of my care. I'd talk to it more than I talked to people. Pat the dashboard like it was alive. Fix it like it was an extension of myself. When I raced, I wasn't chasing trophies—I was chasing the moment where man and machine became the same thing. No distractions. No lies. Just control.

Until that control started to fray. It was a traveling competition, just another race, when I caught the scent. Sweet, heady, filling my entire space. It was driving me crazy. My team kept giving me weird looks every time I fumbled with my gear. It felt like being suffocated with the world's strongest candle.

When I finally dropped my gloves one too many times, I decided to figure out what the fuck was going on. I walked around the pit, trailing the scent like a fucking dog. It was a bit embarrassing—I didn't suppress my instincts, but I also had enough self control to not do, well, this shit. Apparently, not today.

Then—there. A racer, climbing out of his car. The moment he pulled off his helmet, the scent got dramatically worse. Sweat was cooling on his skin, his fireproofs sticking to his body, the smooth skin of his neck—holy shit. I swallowed, faltering for a moment. I needed to calm myself down. I couldn't just go over to a random competitor and say, "Hey, you smell really good."

I took a slight step back, running a hand through my hair. I caught one of the pit crew members with the racer's sigil on his shirt, my voice low and rough. "Who's that?"

The guy smirked easily, his eyes lighting up at the question. Great, so he wasn't just good at racing or smelled fucking edible, people actually liked him too. I was so fucked. "That's the new driver. He travels a lot, so if you want to catch a bit of his time, better make it quick."

I exhaled, letting the crew member go back to work. I should just leave, this was pathetic. I was the epitome of control, of quiet silence. I cared about racing, and I cared about my car. But fuck, the man in front of me was calling on every single buried instinct like a live wire.

I was so, so fucked.