Eventually, we slowed near the outskirts of town. The racing track came into view—a flat, open stretch of asphalt hidden behind a row of old warehouses. Johan turned the bike in, rolled to a stop at the edge of the track, and killed the engine.

We sat in the quiet for a moment.

The only sound was the ticking of the cooling engine and the wind rustling through the empty stands.

I unhooked my helmet and pulled it off, hair a mess, cheeks flushed.

“I missed this,” I whispered.

The scent of rubber and hot concrete hit me as soon as we stepped onto the race track.

I stretched my arms high over my head, releasing a long sigh. “Finally, exams are over. I feel like I’ve aged five years.”

Johan didn’t respond.

He just walked ahead, hands in his pockets, gaze fixed straight ahead.

The last time we were here, it had been late—quiet. Just us, a few lights, and a stolen moment. But now, the place buzzed with quiet tension. A few workers paced around, clipboards in hand, checking equipment and jotting notes. Someone was reviewing tire stacks. Another was recalibrating telemetry sensors by the garage wall.

And then I saw a scary man.

A tall man in a crisp charcoal suit stood at the edge of the pit lane, sleeves rolled up just enough to suggest he wasn’t here just for show. His salt-and-pepper hair was neatly combed back, and though he didn’t speak loudly, the few people around him listened closely to every word.

He turned slowly at the sound of our approaching footsteps.

Sharp eyes flicked from Johan—who had slowed noticeably—to me.

“Finally got to see your face, Son,” he said with calm precision. “Was wondering when you’d stop hiding.”

Johan sighed softly, under his breath. “Didn’t know there was a royal inspection today.”

Mr. Ratchata raised a brow. “After what happened last week? You think I wouldn’t be here?”

I blinked.

Curious.

His gaze moved back to me.

“And who is this?”

Johan, ever eloquent, deadpanned, “Nong.”

That was it. Just Nong.

I cleared my throat, trying to make up for the complete lack of context. “sawadee khrab, I am North.”

That pause was a little too long.

Mr. Ratchata studied me. Not unkindly, but with the measured look of someone who weighed people like assets and liabilities.

Johan added, “He asked to come.”

“I see.” Mr. Ratchata nodded once. “Well, just make sure you both stay clear of the inner lane. We’re still checking brake response from last week’s run.”

“Yes, pa,” Johan replied, surprisingly obedient.

“And Johan,” his father said, turning slightly, “that corner down by turn four—your juniors are still reckless there. Don’t just watch—guide them. Your role here is more than driving.”

There was a softness to the words, buried beneath the firm tone. It wasn’t just reprimand—it was expectation. Trust.

Johan gave a tight nod. “I know.”

That seemed to satisfy Mr. Ratchata. He offered me a brief nod—half courtesy, half warning—and returned to his inspection, clipboard in hand.

Once we were far enough from earshot, I turned to Johan, wide-eyed.

“Drop it.”

“Your dad… he’s like a boss-level character. I felt like I needed to bow or something.”

“He’s not that bad,” Johan muttered. “Just... always in business mode.”

I grinned. “Still, he didn’t threaten to have me removed. I consider that a win.”

Johan rolled his eyes but didn’t argue.

We reached the quieter end of the track, the spot where the fences curved and the wind caught your shirt just right. I dropped onto a low wall, kicking my legs lazily.

“Phi,” I said, glancing up at him, “take me for a ride.”

Johan blinked. “What?”

“On the track.” I shot him my most shameless grin. “Come on. I’ve been studying equations and ethical case studies for two straight weeks. I deserve this.”

“You think this is a theme park?”

“Yes,” I replied without hesitation.

He groaned, long and suffering. “You’ll scream halfway through and cry for your mom.”

I stuck out my tongue. “Pleaseeee. I’m brave now. I passed calculus.”

“That’s not—” He closed his eyes briefly, clearly regretting all his life choices. “Fine. But I’m driving. You touch the wheel, we’re dead.”

“Deal,” I chirped, already jogging toward the garage.

He muttered something under his breath and followed.

The engine purred under us—low, throaty, hungry.

I sat stiffly in the passenger seat, trying not to show that my heart was already racing before we even moved. Johan adjusted his gloves with slow, practiced precision, like he did this in his sleep. And maybe he did.

“You ready?” he asked, eyes flicking toward me beneath the edge of his helmet visor.

“No,” I said honestly.

He smirked. “Too late.”

Then we were off.

The initial thrust of acceleration nearly knocked the soul out of my body. I yelped—of course—and gripped the side handle like my life depended on it. Which, to be fair, it probably did.

Johan didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

His driving was the conversation. Smooth lines, tight corners, calculated bursts of speed that made the world blur into streaks of color. The tires kissed the curves with alarming grace, skimming millimeters from the edge without ever tipping into chaos.

It was terrifying. Exhilarating. Beautiful.

Somewhere after the second lap, I forgot to be afraid.

I started laughing.

Johan glanced at me, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

He sped up.

When we finally rolled to a stop, my heart was still pounding, but this time from sheer adrenaline. I tore off the helmet, breathless, hair a mess, grinning like a lunatic.

“That,” I gasped, “was the coolest thing I’ve ever done.”

Johan pulled his helmet off too. His hair stuck slightly to his forehead, a little tousled. He looked unfairly good for someone who’d just made a sport out of defying death.

“You didn’t cry,” he said mildly.

“I was too busy dying inside.”

His lips twitched. “Still a brat.”

“But your brat,” I said automatically, before I could stop myself.

There was a beat of silence.

His gaze lingered on me. Not teasing. Not mocking. Just… quiet. Considering.

Then he looked away. “It’s late.”

I blinked.

It was. The sky had deepened into a cool navy, with stars just beginning to appear above the concrete bleachers. The crew had long since left, and the track was still for the first time all day.

“We can’t go back now,” Johan muttered, already walking toward the garage.

“Why not?”

“Dorm gates close early on Saturday nights. You’d have to sleep outside.”

I blanched. “Wait—are you serious?”

“Deadly.”

“Then what do I do?”

He shot me a look over his shoulder. “You’re staying with me.”

“Oh.”

.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.

Oh.

The penthouse wasn’t what I expected.

I’d imagined cold minimalism—marble, black furniture, sharp edges.

But it was surprisingly warm.

Dark wood. Soft lights. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the track. A couple racing trophies tucked away on the shelves—not displayed, just there.

Johan tossed his keys on the kitchen counter and muttered, “Shower’s down the hall. Use the black towel, not the gray.”

“What happens if I use the gray one?”

“You won’t make it to morning.”

“Right,” I mumbled, tiptoeing away.

By the time I came out, hair damp, dressed in one of Johan’s oversized shirts that practically swallowed me, I was barely functional.

The adrenaline had worn off.

The post-exam crash had hit.

I was exhausted.

And I haven't even texted Easter, Dao and Phoon about by whereabouts.

And I had a gaming match with Nao scheduled.

I collapsed onto the couch with a soft sigh, tucking myself into the corner like a sleepy cat.

“Bed’s down the hall,” Johan said, walking past with a glass of water.

“Mhm.”

I didn’t move.

Didn’t open my eyes.

Didn’t even register when the glass was set on the table next to me.

The last thing I remembered was the soft hum of air conditioning and the way the couch dipped slightly beside me for a moment—like he’d sat there, just to make sure I was still breathing.

✿✿✿

Later that night, Johan stood over the couch, arms crossed, staring at the ridiculous heap of limbs passed out in his favorite spot.

North was dead to the world. Soft little snores. A slight pout. The blanket he’d pulled over himself had slipped halfway to the floor.

Johan sighed.

“You’re like a damn stray,” johan muttered, but there was no real irritation in his voice.

With a quiet huff, Johan bent down, hooked his arms beneath north, and lifted him up. North didn’t even stir—just burrowed into his chest like a koala.

“You’re not even light,” Johan  complained.

Still. He carried him.

Into the spare room. Onto the bed. Pulled the covers over north's shoulder.

For a long moment, he stood there, just watching him sleep.

Then he turned away, muttering something half-annoyed, half-exasperated under his breath.

“…Brat.”

But his voice was soft.

Almost fond.