"I can't believe I stepped on poop," I muttered for the fifth time while sitting on a throw pillow I bought in Bali for aesthetics, not comfort. "Literal poop, Ari. I looked down, and boom. Crime scene. On my heel. Like a Chanel tragedy waiting to happen."
"You already told me," Ari replied, drying my shoe with a hairdryer. "Three times. With sound effects."
"But I haven't told you what happened after," I whispered, eyes widening as I hugged my knees on the couch, still in my cherry blossom pink co-ord set—wrinkled from the emotional distress, obviously.
"He helped me clean it. With wipes. Like a literal gentleman. But then... today happened."
Ari turned off the hairdryer and held up my newly cleaned shoe like it was a glass slipper. "Girl, you cannot keep emotionally stalking this man. What's the plan now? We pretend to be normal, chill, breezy, and not obsessed? Which means..." He paused, seeing the look on my face. "Oh no. You're going to that racetrack, aren't you?"
"I have to!" I sat up slowly. "I swear to every star in Orion's belt, if you don't come with me, I will cry, Ari.
I will cry in full mascara.
And you know I don't do waterproof."
Ari didn't even blink. "That sounds like a personal choice."
"Ari!" I whined, sprawling dramatically across the couch like I was in a 2003 telenovela. "Please! I need moral support."
"From me? At a car race?" he blinked, holding his cup of ginger tea like it was holy water. "Girl, I can't even drive. My most dangerous vehicle is a shopping cart."
"That's why you're perfect. I can't drive either. We're both emotionally allergic to engines. It's like we're going to war together, side by side."
He squinted. "You just want someone to film you looking hot in the bleachers while pretending to understand the race."
"…Also that. And I want to see Cairo."
Ari sighed, long and theatrical. "Fine. But if I get a nosebleed from the tire smoke, you're paying for my nose job."
Two hours later, we were at the racetrack.
The sun was blazing, engines were roaring, and I was already regretting everything.
Why were car fans so loud?
Why did the cars sound like aggressive lawnmowers on steroids?
And why the hell was Nadine here?
No. Seriously.
Why. The. Hell. Was Nadine. Here?
She stood near the edge of the pit lane, wearing an unnecessarily cute denim jacket over a tube top, her hair blown out like she was doing a shampoo commercial, smiling at the crowd like she was the poster child of "Supportive Girlfriends of the Racing Community."
I elbowed Ari. "Tell me she got lost. Tell me she thinks this is a Coachella pre-party."
Ari blinked, looking at a nearby monitor. "She's doing a full-on press interview."
"What?!" I snapped around.
Sure enough, two reporters were filming her while she smiled that same sugary smile I wanted to scrub off with micellar water.
"I'm just here to support Cairo," she said sweetly into the microphone, tucking her hair behind her ear. "You know, I really admire his dedication to the sport."
I stood there, blinking.
What the actual F is going on?! That's my job! Supporter? My sugarplum? My honeybunch Cairo?!
Ari clutched my forearm like I was about to commit a crime. "Breathe. You're turning red. Not the sexy kind."
"She's hijacking my arc," I hissed. "That's my slow-burn romance. My supportive fan-to-lover plot. Not hers! I paid for that narrative with emotional damage and organic green juice!"
"You don't even like cars, Elara. You don't even own one."
"I don't even like her!"
Cairo appeared just then—walking toward his team in his full racing gear, his helmet tucked under his arm, sweat glistening just enough to make a grown woman reconsider her moral compass.
He looked… divine.
And then—like it was nothing—he walked up to her.
To Nadine.
He smiled, thanked her, and hugged her.
Okay, it wasn't a real, passionate hug.
It was more like that side-hug, kind-of-awkward hug you give to someone you vaguely know but don't want to seem rude to.
But still! My brain went blank.
Like, a full factory reset.
Ari nudged me. "You okay?"
"Who am I?" I whispered. "What year is it? Are we in a simulation?"
"Elara—"
"I came here to support Cairo! I wore lip balm for this! I studied engine metaphors just in case I got interviewed!"
"You didn't study anything."
"I Googled 'cool car words' last night! That's basically research!"
Before I could reply, Cairo looked toward the stands—and his eyes found me.
Just for a second.
Just long enough.
And I swear to all that is dramatic and divine, his mouth twitched.
Almost like a smirk.
Like he knew I saw everything.
Like he knew I was ready to storm the racetrack and tackle someone for sport.
I blinked at him.
He nodded once, then turned away—back to the cars, back to the race, back to his passion.
"Elara?" Ari whispered. "Should I get popcorn?"
"No," I said firmly, straightening my back and squaring my shoulders. "Get me sunglasses."
"Why?"
"Because I'm going to sit there, look insanely hot, and pretend none of this is bothering me. And if I cry, no one will know."
I planted myself on the bleachers like I owned the racetrack.
Crossed legs, chin tilted just slightly upward, oversized sunglasses firmly in place. The engines revved again, a loud mechanical growl that vibrated through my ribcage.
Cairo's car zoomed into view—sleek, black, aggressive—and I felt my chest tighten.
"Babe," Ari said, taking a sip of his overpriced lemonade. "You made eye contact with a man through a helmet visor at seventy miles per hour."
"It was meaningful eye contact!"
"Delulu. Fully delulu," Ari shook his head in defeat. "Why do you even like him? He's not your usual type. He looks like he broods for fun."
"He does brood for fun," I whispered, watching the track. "I like him because he doesn't make me feel like I'm too much. And also because he looks like a Greek god dipped in asphalt."
The race ended with a blur of engines and cheers. Cairo's car crossed the finish line first, and the crowd exploded.
He climbed out of the vehicle, sweat-soaked and golden in the light, pulling off his helmet.
And just as he looked up at the stands—at me—Nadine ran to him and hugged him again.
Tighter this time.
And the cameras loved it.
I froze.
"Elara," Ari whispered carefully, "don't cry. Your lashes are expensive."
"I'm not crying. I'm just… sweating from the eyes."
Then Cairo looked up again.
Past the cameras, past the chaos, and for half a second, we locked eyes. Just long enough for him to see me.
Just long enough for me to look away.
Because that hug? It broke something soft, something silly, something delulu.
I realized… maybe I wasn't the main character in his story.
"Let's go," I said to Ari, adjusting my sunglasses.
"Before I do something crazy. Like confess my love with a megaphone and a monologue."
We turned around to leave the bleachers, but just before we reached the exit stairs, a breathless voice cut through the noise of the crowd.
"Elara!"
I turned.
It was him.
Cairo.
His helmet was still in one hand as he jogged toward the fence separating the pit lane from the crowd, his eyes locked entirely on me.
And for the first time since I'd met him, he smiled.
A real, genuine smile.
"Elara!" he said again, arriving at the barrier. "Wait."
And in my head?
The entire world paused.