The air in the paddock was thick and heavy, saturated with the smell of burnt rubber, hot metal, and adrenaline—a cocktail that refused to dissipate even an hour after the checkered flag. It had been a hot race, in every sense of the word. Sonny, his fireproofs peeled down to his waist and tied around his hips, stood with his back to the open garage doors of APX-GP, listening to the familiar, lulling chaos—the clang of tools, the hiss of pneumatic guns, the staccato bursts of radio chatter.

The race had ended in P2. A good result, but not a win. Not the top step of the podium where Sonny Hayes belonged. The win had been taken by that guy from McLaren.

"Traction stabilizer in Turn 10 was cutting power like I was on wets, not slicks," he said quietly to his race engineer, Tom. "Again. Felt it every time."

Tom sighed. "I know, Sonny. We saw it in the data. The computer calculated you were on the edge."

"Your computer is afraid of heights, Tom," Sonny shot back, rising to his feet. "I *live* on that edge."

He walked out into the paddock, where journalists circled like vultures, already preparing tricky questions about "the loss of pace in the final sectors" and "age."

His gaze suddenly snagged on a familiar figure—the McLaren control systems engineer standing by their hospitality suite, engrossed in a tablet with that same unflappable expression that drove him crazy. Her car had won today. Her systems had worked flawlessly.

Sonny felt his jaw tighten with a familiar tension—not just anger, but something more complex: frustration, challenge, and that nagging, inconvenient attraction he couldn't suppress.

She looked up suddenly, as if sensing his gaze. Their eyes met—the scorched, weary gaze of a racer and the clear, analytical gaze of an engineer. He expected triumph or pity, but saw only calm acknowledgment. A slight nod that seemed to say, It was a good race. We made you sweat.

Sonny snorted and took sharp steps toward her, stopping in front of her, blocking the setting sun.

"Congratulations on the win," his voice was low and slightly hoarse. "Your car was flying today, like it had a jet engine under the hood instead of an ICE. Especially on the straights."