VELOCITY

She steps around me, hips swaying like a predator's, her helmet fixed forward but her voice stalking me like a shadow. Slowly, deliberately, she slides one gloved hand down the metal tab of her fireproof suit. Her fingers curl around the zipper by her throat. With a tug, it dips lower over her chest. Not just a few inches, no, all the way. The neckline plunges into shadow, nothing hiding the fact that she's crossed the line from race-ready to reckless.

From fierce to fucking dangerous.

I lean in, my other hand rising. I press my fingers to the collar of her suit. Right at the edge where the zipper ends.

Her breath catches, and even through the helmet, I hear it.

"You wanna flirt, fine," I say. "But if you're going to look death in the eye and laugh, you better be ready for someone to call your bluff."

I drag the zipper back up.

"Maybe I want someone to call it," She says silkily.

I don't let go of her wrist.

Instead, I lean just a little closer, my voice barely a thread.

"Then stop hiding behind helmets."
--------------------------------------------
Even through the thick smoke, the helmet, through the roar of the engines- he sees her.

Not 𝙀𝙡𝙤𝙞𝙨𝙚, the composed girl with the gentle eyes and kind smile.

𝙑𝙚𝙡𝙤𝙘𝙞𝙩𝙮.
The ghost who races like a warning, the myth with steel in her veins. The one who's been haunting the streets and humiliating his crew, one win at a time.

And he's obsessed.