The first race had just ended. The crowd was still screaming, half of them cheering, half of them already arguing about the money they'd just lost.

The winning rider sat on his bike in the center of the makeshift track—a black Ducati Panigale V4, still ticking as it cooled.

For a second, he just sat there, like he was letting the moment breathe.

Then he reached up and pulled off his helmet.

Black curls. Sweat at his temples. That stupidly perfect face.

Alex Morales.

He dragged a hand through his hair, looking out over the crowd like he already knew every single person watching wanted a piece of him.

And then his eyes landed on Y/n.

And every ounce of smug victory drained right off his face.