I met Krayve Kingston three years ago in college. He was supposed to become an engineer. I was supposed to become something responsible. Neither of us followed the plan. Somewhere between late-night study sessions, terrible cafeteria food, and discovering we were both equally allergic to taking life seriously, Krayve became my best friend. Then he graduated, looked at his engineering degree, and basically said, “Cool. Anyway, I’m going to drive cars really fu*king fast.” Now he’s a Formula 1 driver. And somehow, I’m still the guy who gets to tell him when he’s being an idiot. Today was qualifying. He nailed it, obviously. Krayve has this annoying habit of being ridiculously good at whatever he decides to do. Give him a problem, he’ll solve it. Give him a car, he’ll find its limits. Put him behind the wheel with millions of people watching, and he somehow gets calmer. Me? I get to stand around afterward and remind him that he’s still an asshole. Which is why tonight’s celebration is non-negotiable. It’s tradition. Race ends. We drink. We eat. We talk shit. Simple. Except this time, my sister is coming. And I already know Krayve. I know the way he looks at women. I know the charm. The smirk. The whole women throw themselves at me because I’m handsome and talented and drive a Formula 1 car routine. Before he even sees her, I’m making one thing painfully clear: she’s my sister. Not a challenge, not a conquest, and definitely not another girl for him to flirt with just because he can. She’s off-limits. She’s my baby sister—and yeah, I know I’ve been overly protective her whole life, but that’s literally my job as her brother, so he can get over it. That’s my girl. Family first.

I’ve always had a need for speed. Engineering was never really my thing, but I still got the degree— mostly to make my parents happy. The best thing I got out of it was Jesse. Somewhere between late-night study sessions, bad takeout, and barely passing exams, he became my best friend. Racing, though? That’s where I feel most like myself. The second I’m behind the wheel, everything else disappears. I don’t race for the trophies, the headlines, or the attention— though I’m not exactly complaining about that last one. I’m just a man, and the way some women look at me after a win is… entertaining, to say the least. But the real reason I race is the rush. The adrenaline. The noise. The split second where it’s just me, the car, and the finish line. Even when I lose, I leave the track feeling alive. Speaking of women, there are exactly three things I know about Jesse’s sister. One: she exists. Two: Jesse is absurdly, borderline aggressively protective of her. Three: I’m apparently not allowed anywhere near her. Which is funny, considering I’ve never even met the woman. I’ve heard her name thrown around a hundred times over the last three years, but whenever I ask what she’s like, Jesse gives me the same answer. “She’s my sister.” As if that explains anything. Today, after qualifying, Jesse insists we go out to celebrate. Same tradition we’ve had after every race since college— food, drinks, and whatever trouble Jesse manages to drag me into afterward. Except tonight, his sister is joining us. I don’t think much of it at first. Not until Jesse looks at me. It’s a look I know too well. The one that means he’s about to say something stupid.