Finish

The streets of Las Vegas looked nothing like the tracks Nick had grown used to.

There were no sweeping greens or old grandstands. No gravel traps softened by decades of racing scars. Instead, the circuit carved itself through neon and glass, temporary barriers hemming the track in tight corridors between hotels and LED billboards that burned in the absence of sunlight.

The strip pulsed with artificial daylight.

Nick sat low in the cockpit as the grid finished forming, the glare reflecting off the halo and bleeding into the edges of his vision. The city felt awake, restless, loud, and impatient. Even through the helmet, even over the engine noise, he could feel it.

Vegas never sleeps, and he could understand why.

“Engine temps are good,” his engineer said through the radio. “All sensors in the green. You’re clear to focus.”

Nick nodded, though no one could see it.

Since Singapore, and the unfortunate events that occurred, his life had simplified in a way that felt both surreal and hollow. The calendar was still brutal—back-to-back races, sponsor appearances, media obligations—but everything emotional had been boxed up and labeled later. He answered questions cleanly. He trained harder. He slept when he could. He stopped checking his phone for messages that weren’t there.

The commentators framed it differently, of course. They talked about maturity, about growth. About how Nick Young, a promising young rookie, looked sharper, more aggressive, more willing to take risks during a race. They praised his ability to shut out distractions, to channel pressure into performance.

They weren’t wrong, though on-track performance wasn’t the biggest hurdle Nick had overcome.

The five red lights illuminated one by one, reflected a hundred times over in the glass of nearby hotels.

Nick’s grip tightened.

The streets of the Vegas Strip were slippery at night. The surface cooled faster than expected, the desert air stealing heat from the asphalt. This meant grip would come and go. Mistakes would be punished immediately—in the form of sudden contact with concrete and steel.

“Remember,” the engineer said, “Keep it clean. Minimize damage to the aero.”

Nick exhaled slowly.

The lights went out.

He launched cleanly, clutch bite perfect, rear tires gripping just enough to avoid wheelspin as the car surged forward into the chaos of Turn One. The field compressed immediately, walls closing on either side as drivers jostled for position with millimeters to spare.

Nick threaded through it smoothly.

Lap after lap, the race settled into rhythm. The Vegas circuit demanded precision more than aggression—short straights followed by tight braking zones, corners that punished even slight overcommitment. Nick stayed disciplined, braking a fraction earlier than he would have on a permanent track, sacrificing theoretical lap times for consistency.

He moved up the grid steadily.

By Lap 22, he was running third.

“Pace is strong,” the engineer said. “We’re matching the leaders. Keep this up.”

Nick didn’t respond right away.

The car felt good. It was as if the car was an extension of himself, responding exactly how he would predict with every movement.

As the race stretched on, the familiar sting of fatigue crept in quietly. The constant glare from the differing lights strained the eyes. The tight walls created a claustrophobic feeling. The night air stayed cold and dry while the cockpit heat built relentlessly.

Nick managed it the way he always did—by narrowing his world down to the cockpit and the track ahead of him.

Lap 41.

The race had entered its second half, strategies converging as pit windows closed and track position solidified. Nick had managed to claw his way into second place, pressure mounting from the car behind while the leader just ahead began to suffer from tire degradation.

“There might be an opportunity for the lead ahead,” the engineer said. “Stay patient.”

Nick acknowledged with a brief tap of the radio button.

The Las Vegas Strip blurred past in a ribbon of light and color as he approached one of the fastest sections of the circuit—a slight kink followed by a heavy braking zone..

He’d taken it cleanly every lap so far.

Nick stayed tucked in the slipstream of the lead vehicle, the TaurusForte that was his rival in the championship standings. His eyes remained fixed on the purple rear wing ahead.

A fast kink ahead of the heavy braking zone.He fixed his eyes on the braking marker.

One hundred meters.

Fifty meters.

“We’ll talk again.”

The words surfaced without warning.

The Han River at night—dark water glowing faintly behind her as the city wrapped around them like a secret. She’d looked back at him then, one hand still on the taxi door.

“Count on it.”

Nick’s jaw tightened.

He stayed flat-out through the kink, the car grasping for grip as the track straightened. His foot hovered, waiting for the moment to hammer out of the corner.

Another voice slipped in, softer.

“You okay after everything?”

Her face on his phone screen in Korea, framed by soft lighting, oversized hoodie pulled over her hands. No makeup. No staff. Just her, watching him like nothing else existed.

He hit the brake…a fraction of a second late.

The car decelerated hard, weight transferring forward, front tires biting—but with much less grip than before. The steering went light in his hands, subtle but unmistakable.

Too fast.

Nick eased off the brake instinctively, trying to regain the front, opening the corner just enough to recover the rotation.

“That’s probably because we’re basically childhood friends.”

Her voice again—calm, practiced—into a microphone in Korea, the crowd roaring around them as she stood beside him at the finish line.

The car understeered wider.

Nick corrected, sharper this time, trying to force the nose back toward the apex.

“It was surprising,” she’d said later. “There’s not a whole lot that could make it more memorable.”

The barrier rushed toward him.

The right-front tire clipped the wall. Impact came instantly.

The suspension collapsed on contact, the car pitching violently as the broken corner rode up the barrier instead of deflecting away. The steering wheel was torn from neutral, snapping sideways in his hands.

For a split second, the world tilted unnaturally—

Then the car launched.

Nick’s vision inverted as the halo slammed into the barrier, sparks erupting in a blinding cascade as the car flipped. The engine screamed, then cut abruptly as momentum carried him over again.

The radio went dead.

Metal shrieked against concrete.

The car began to roll.

His body was thrown hard against the belts as gravity disappeared, then slammed back sideways. His helmet struck the padding with brutal force, white light exploding behind his eyes.

“I still love you, I still want to be with you.”

The words weren’t a thought anymore. They were just there, echoing, impossible to stop.

The car rolled again, slower this time, but no less violent. Something cracked sharply near his shoulder. Pain flared—bright and immediate—before dissolving into something heavier, more distant.

There was a final rotation, before the car landed upside down.

Silence followed, thick and disorienting.

Nick hung suspended in the harness, blood rushing to his head, the world spinning even though the car had stopped moving. Neon lights blurred past the edge of his vision, though Nick could hardly tell.

He tried to breathe, but every breath felt a thousand times harder than normal. His chest felt crushed, pressure blooming outward from his ribs. The pain sharpened suddenly, overwhelming, stealing what little breath he managed to draw.

Somewhere far away, voices shouted.

Yellow flags waved all over the track.

But Nick didn’t see them.

His vision tunneled, the edges darkening as the cockpit lights flickered above him. The halo was the only thing separating him from the asphalt below. Though massively dinged up, the halo had managed to stay intact.

One last image surfaced, unbidden and devastatingly clear.

Her, leaning closer in Monaco, voice low.

“I don’t want to waste this.”

Nick’s fingers twitched uselessly against the steering wheel.

The darkness closed in fast, swallowing the neon, the noise, the pain.

And Nick Young went completely still.

The hallway behind the stage smelled faintly of hairspray and makeup.

Voices overlapped in practiced rhythm with staff calling cues, and dancers stretching. The venue was already buzzing on the other side of the wall, with Areum’s songs bleeding faintly through concrete as the crowd settled into anticipation.

Areum stood near her dressing room door, jacket draped loosely over her shoulders, microphone pack clipped at her waist but not yet turned on.

Five minutes.

That was what they’d told her.

Her body did her pre-performance warmup routine—head tilted slightly as a stylist checked her in-ear, hands clasped loosely in front of her as someone adjusted a stray fold in her sleeve.

A small television was mounted high in the corner of the hallway, volume turned low. She hadn’t asked for it to be on.

Playing was the Las Vegas Grand Prix, happening less than a mile away. Neon reflected off barriers, cars streaking past in flashes of color and light.

Areum didn’t look at it at first. All it would bring her was sadness.

Someone passed by, glancing up briefly. “Oh, the Vegas race is on.”

Another voice responded, distracted. “Isn’t that the one your—”

The sentence trailed off, unfinished.

Areum’s eyes lifted on instinct.

The timing screen flashed. Nick’s name sat in second place.

Her chest tightened—remembering the last time she spoke to him. She told herself not to linger.

The camera followed the leaders through one of the faster sections of the circuit. The Strip blurred behind them, the cars were threading the corners with increasingly smaller margins between their cars and the walls.

Then it happened. The car ahead took a corner.

Nick followed.

For half a second, nothing looked wrong.

Then the camera angle shifted.

His car clipped the wall.

The impact came so suddenly that her mind lagged behind what her eyes were seeing.

The front corner collapsed, the car snapping sideways—

And then it lifted.

Flipped.

Rolled.

Once.

Twice.

The screen filled with sparks and rotating lights as the car tumbled violently, the broadcaster struggling to keep up his commentary. The halo scraped against concrete, debris scattering across the track as the car landed upside down in a cloud of smoke.

The hallway went silent.

Someone swore under their breath.

“Oh my—”

The replay began immediately.

Slower this time.

Clearer.

Areum didn’t move.

She didn’t gasp or reach out or make a sound. Her body went perfectly still, unable to process anything that wasn’t on the TV screen.

The image replayed once more—his car riding up the barrier, flipping, rolling, coming to rest inverted.

Her fingers curled slowly into her palms.

The commentators’ voices filtered through, calm but strained, filling the space with words that felt meaningless.

“—a very heavy accident—”

“—Young’s radio is silent—”

“—we’ll wait for confirmation—”

The camera cut away. Yellow flags waved on-screen as the medical car rolled into view.

Areum swallowed.

Her throat felt tight, like the air had thickened around her without warning. A coordinator touched her arm gently.

“Areum,” they said, carefully. “We’re about to—”

She looked down at the hand, then back up at the screen.

“Where is that?” she asked.

The coordinator hesitated. “The circuit? He’s—”

“No,” Areum said quietly. “Which hospital?”

The coordinator blinked. “I—I don’t know yet. We’ll find out.”

Areum didn’t even blink before starting to run.

She threw off her microphone pack and sped to a nearby table. Her phone lay face-up on the table, screen dark. She picked it up with steady hands and unlocked it.

No messages.

No updates.

She didn’t expect any.

Behind her, someone murmured, “They’re saying the halo held. That’s good, right?”

No one answered.

Areum stared at the screen one last time as the broadcast cut to a wide shot of the Strip, lights blazing as if nothing had happened.

Then she turned away.

Her reflection caught briefly in a darkened monitor—face composed, eyes clear, posture perfect. The version of herself the world knew.

She took one breath.

Then another.

And made a decision.

Her eyes were fixed somewhere beyond the hallway, beyond the venue, beyond Las Vegas itself. The image of the car flipping—over and over, sparks tearing through the night—replayed without sound behind her eyes.

Her phone buzzed.

She looked down.

An unknown number.

She answered it without hesitation.

“Yes?”

The voice on the other end was calm but rushed. “Areum. This is Marcus, Nick’s manager.”

Her breath caught.

“I’ve sent a car,” he continued. “It’s outside the venue. You need to come now.”

She didn’t ask how he knew where she was. She didn’t ask what exactly had happened. She didn’t have time to ask why.

“Where?” she asked instead.

“The hospital,” Marcus said. There was a pause, brief but deliberate. “Nick’s there.”

That was all.

The call ended.

Areum lowered the phone slowly.

A staff member opened their mouth to speak—intending on having Areum be on stage for the still on-going concert—but Areum ran past them before a word could leave their lips.

“I’m leaving,” she said.

There was no argument this time. No attempt to reason with her. Something in her voice made it clear that nothing they said would matter.

The side exit door opened and the noise of the venue spilled briefly into the corridor before the desert air swallowed it whole.

A black van idled at the curb.

The driver stepped out as soon as he saw her, opening the door without explanation. His expression was professional, tight with urgency, like someone who had been told only the essentials and knew better than to ask questions.

Areum climbed in and shut the door.

The van pulled away immediately, tires gripping asphalt as the Strip slid past the tinted windows in streaks of neon and motion. Casinos rose and fell in her peripheral vision, people laughing and stumbling under lights that suddenly felt obscene.

She leaned her forehead lightly against the cool glass.

Her phone buzzed again.

This time, it was Marcus.

→ He’s in surgery.

→ Emergency room.

→ We’re waiting.

Areum closed her eyes.

The hospital was quiet, yet loud at the same time. The hum of fluorescent lights. The distant murmur of voices. The occasional squeak of shoes against polished floors.

Areum stepped out of the van and into that quiet, her body suddenly aware of itself again as she ran into the emergency room.

Marcus was the first person she saw.

He stood near the double doors marked “AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY”, his jacket still on, tie loosened, phone clutched in one hand like he’d forgotten to put it away. He looked older than she remembered, and tired in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.

When he saw her, his posture shifted—a temporary relief.

“You made it,” he said.

Areum nodded, her voice cracking in between the panting. “Where is he?”

Marcus glanced at the doors behind him. “Operating room. Trauma surgery.”

Her stomach dropped.

Reyes stood a few feet away, arms crossed, gaze fixed on the floor. He looked up when he heard her voice.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then Reyes straightened and walked toward her.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he said quietly.

Areum searched his face for something—answers, reassurance, anything—but found only worry.

“How bad?” she asked.

Reyes didn’t sugarcoat it. “Serious. Multiple injuries. He was unresponsive when the marshals got to him.”

Her hands curled into fists at her sides.

Marcus stepped in gently. “They’re doing everything they can.”

“Why—” Her voice faltered, and she stopped, forcing herself to breathe. “Why did you send for me?”

Marcus didn’t hesitate. “Because Nick would have wanted you here.”

The words landed heavier than she expected.

Reyes nodded once. “There wasn’t even a discussion.”

Areum swallowed. “He—he didn’t say anything?”

Marcus shook his head. “He has been unconscious this whole time.”

Reyes looked at her steadily. “But we know him. And we know what you mean to him.”

The weight of that pressed down on her chest until it hurt.

They moved to the waiting area just outside the operating room doors. Plastic chairs lined the wall, untouched. A clock hung above them, its ticking too loud in the quiet.

Minutes stretched.

Then hours.

No one checked the time out loud.

Marcus paced occasionally, phone to his ear, murmuring updates to people Areum didn’t know and didn’t care about. Reyes stayed seated, hands clasped, gaze distant but alert.

Areum sat between them, spine straight, hands folded in her lap, eyes fixed on the red light above the operating room door.

“In surgery.”

The words looped in her mind without meaning.

Eventually, a nurse approached, speaking quietly to Marcus and Reyes. Areum caught only fragments.

“—stable for now—”

“—still critical—”

“—another few hours—”

The nurse glanced at Areum briefly, recognition flickering across her face, then nodded politely before moving on.

Reyes leaned back in his chair and exhaled slowly.

“He’s strong,” he said, more to the room than to her. “He’s always been.”

Areum nodded, though she wasn’t sure she believed it.

After another stretch of waiting—the time having moved impossibly slow—Reyes turned toward her fully.

“There’s something I should tell you,” he said.

Areum looked up.

He didn’t rush. He didn’t soften it.

“He loved you,” Reyes said. “Truly.”

Her breath hitched.

“I know you probably think differently after what happened,” he continued, “and I don’t know the first thing about being in your shoes. But I want you to understand something.”

He paused, choosing his words carefully.

“I’ve watched drivers my entire career. I’ve watched them leave girl after girl out there hanging. Nick wasn’t like that.”

Areum stared at him, heart pounding.

“He truly did love you,” Reyes said. “The whole time, I knew he was sneaking out to see you. I didn’t say anything, I didn’t want to get in the way of a young man going out of his way for a woman.”

Tears blurred her vision suddenly, uninvited and unstoppable.

“He didn’t leave you because he fell out of love, nor did he leave you at my request,” Reyes added. “He didn’t want everything you worked for and built to crumble because of his heart.”

That was it.

The dam broke.

Areum’s breath collapsed into a sharp, broken inhale as the weight of everything she’d been holding back finally found somewhere to fall. Her legs fell weak as she struggled to stand. Marcus instinctively held her arm, helping her to stand.

She covered her mouth with one hand, but it didn’t help. The sound escaped anyway—months of restraint unraveling all at once.

“I—I didn’t—” Her voice cracked completely. “I didn’t know how to choose him without destroying everything.”

Reyes stood and placed a hand lightly on her shoulder, grounding but unobtrusive.

“But you’re here now,” he said. “I’m guessing you made a difficult choice to be here, and I know if it was the other way around, it would be Nick I was talking to right now.”

“I should have insisted we not break up,” she sobbed. “I should have—”

Marcus crouched in front of her, voice low. “Hey. Hey. Don’t do that.”

She shook her head violently. “If he doesn’t wake up—”

Reyes interrupted gently but firmly. “He will.”

She looked up at him, eyes red and shining.

“If he lives,” she whispered, voice shaking with conviction, “I won’t do this again. I would give up every fan, every song, every sponsor, just to be with him. I don’t care what it costs. I don’t care what I lose.”

Her hands trembled as she pressed them together like a prayer.

“I’ll give it all up,” she said, sobbing openly now. “Everything. The stages, the albums, the expectations—if it means I get to be with him. I swear.”

The words poured out of her unchecked, desperate and honest.

“I’ll stop pretending I can live without him. Just—please. Please let him live.”

The red light above the operating room door remained unchanged.

Reyes squeezed her shoulder once, then stepped back.

A long time passed.

Then, finally, the doors opened.

A doctor emerged, mask pulled down around their neck, exhaustion etched into their face.

Marcus and Reyes stood immediately.

“How is he?” Marcus asked.

The doctor exhaled. “The surgery was successful. He’s stable.”

Areum surged to her feet so quickly her chair tipped backward.

“Can I see him?” she asked.

The doctor hesitated. “Briefly. He’s still unconscious.”

Reyes nodded to her. “Go.”

The room was dimmer than she expected.

Curtains half-drawn, shining little light on machines humming softly. The world was reduced to quiet beeps and steady lines of light.

Nick lay in the center of it all.

He looked impossibly still.

Bandages wrapped his shoulder and torso. A brace supported his neck. His face was pale, bruised in places she winced to look at, lashes resting against his cheeks, as if they had been sliced over and over again.

Areum approached slowly, afraid of what sudden movement might do.

She sat down beside him and took his hand carefully, threading her fingers through his like she had so many times before in moments no one else saw.

His hand was warm.

She exhaled, a shuddering breath escaping her.

“I’m here,” she whispered, voice hoarse. “I’m not going anywhere.”

For a while, nothing happened.

She talked anyway—soft, rambling, telling him things she’d never said out loud before. Apologizing. Promising. Confessing.

“All those years ago, secretly, I wanted you to stop me,” she admitted quietly. “I wanted to be an idol, so badly. But at the same time, I wanted nothing more than to live a life with you.”

Her thumb brushed his knuckle.

“I love you Nick.”

The monitor beeped steadily.

Then—movement.

His fingers twitched faintly in her grasp.

Areum froze.

“Nick?” she whispered.

His brow furrowed slightly, his breathing shifted, uneven, and then his eyes fluttered open.

Confused. Dazed.

His gaze drifted unfocused across the room before settling—slowly, unbelievably—on her.

For a second, he looked like he didn’t trust what he was seeing.

“Areum?” he croaked, voice barely more than breath.

She laughed and cried at the same time, leaning forward instinctively.

“Yes,” she said, tears streaming freely now. “I’m here.”

His fingers tightened weakly around hers, like he was afraid she’d disappear if he let go.

“You—why are you here—” he murmured.

She shook her head, pressing her forehead lightly against the side of the bed.

“I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

He swallowed with effort. “Why am I her—”

“You crashed during the race,” she interrupted softly. “You’re in the hospital.”

His eyes searched her face, vulnerable and unguarded in a way she’d never seen before.

“I’m not leaving,” she said, steady now. “Not again.”

A tear slipped from the corner of his eye, silent and devastating.

“Okay,” he whispered.

She squeezed his hand gently. “Okay.”

Outside the room, Marcus and Reyes watched through the glass, relief washing over them in quiet waves.

Inside, Areum stayed right where she was, holding Nick’s hand as if it was the only thing anchoring either of them to the world.

For the first time in a long time, she let herself believe that choosing love didn’t have to mean losing everything.

Sometimes, it just meant choosing it out loud

The room settled again after his whisper.

Nick’s eyes stayed open for a moment longer, unfocused but calmer now, his breathing gradually evening out as the medication pulled him gently back toward sleep. The tension that had held his body rigid since he’d woken eased, his fingers loosening slightly in her grasp.

Areum didn’t let go.

She adjusted her grip instead, careful not to tug at the IV tubes or disturb the brace, her thumb resting lightly against the back of his hand. It felt grounding — proof that she was here, that the warmth beneath her fingers was real.

When his eyes finally closed again, it wasn’t sudden. It was the slow surrender of someone who knew, without needing to be told, that he wasn’t alone anymore.

Areum stayed where she was, watching his chest rise and fall.

The steady rhythm of the monitor no longer sounded fragile. It sounded patient.

A soft knock came at the door.

Areum looked up as a nurse stepped inside, movements slow and quiet, not intruding on the moment.

“He needs to rest now,” she said gently. “The surgery went well, but his body’s been through a lot.”

Areum nodded immediately. She had expected this. She had known this moment would come.

She leaned forward once more, lowering her voice even though Nick was already drifting.

“I’ll be right here,” she whispered, close enough that the words were meant for him even if he never heard them. “You don’t have to look for me anymore.”

She brushed her thumb across his knuckles once — a small, deliberate touch — then eased back just enough to let him settle fully.

The nurse hesitated when Areum didn’t stand.

“Family can stay,” she said after a brief pause. “For a little while.”

Areum met her eyes. “Thank you.”

The nurse nodded once and stepped back out, pulling the door closed softly behind her.

Areum sat back down, folding into the chair as the adrenaline that had carried her this far finally began to ebb. Her shoulders ached. Her eyes burned. Her body felt heavy in a way she welcomed.

She didn’t reach for her phone.

She didn’t think about the concert that had gone dark mid-expectation, or the messages that would already be piling up unanswered. She didn’t think about statements or explanations or the careful choreography of a life lived under watchful eyes.

All of that could wait.

Nick shifted faintly, a soft sound escaping him as his breathing adjusted again. Instinctively, Areum leaned forward, her hand finding his without thought, fingers lacing through his as naturally as breathing.

The movement stilled him.

She smiled, small and tired and real.

Outside the room, footsteps passed. Somewhere down the hall, a phone rang. The world continued, indifferent and relentless as it always had been.

Inside, something settled into place.

When Marcus and Reyes returned later, they didn’t interrupt. They watched briefly through the glass — Nick sleeping peacefully now, Areum seated at his side, her head bowed slightly as if in quiet thought — and exchanged a look that needed no words.

Reyes was the first to turn away.

Marcus followed.

They left without knocking.

Hours passed.

The light beyond the curtains shifted almost imperceptibly as night deepened. Areum dozed lightly in the chair, never fully asleep, her grip loosening only when Nick’s hand twitched again, pulling her back instantly.

She woke to find his eyes open once more.

This time, there was less confusion in them.

He didn’t speak right away. He just looked at her, really looked — as if committing the sight of her to memory all over again.

“You stayed,” he said quietly.

She smiled. “I told you I would.”

His throat worked as he swallowed. “You didn’t have to.”

“Yes,” she said gently, squeezing his hand. “I did.”

Something in his expression shifted then — relief giving way to understanding.

He nodded once.

No more questions.

They stayed like that for a long time, neither needing to say anything else. Words would only circle what had already been decided.

When sleep took him again, Areum remained, her presence steady and unyielding.

By the time the morning staff arrived and the sun finally crept into the room in pale, tentative light, there was no uncertainty left between them.

Areum rested her chin lightly against the edge of the bed and closed her eyes, still holding his hand.

This time, she didn’t feel like she was waiting.

She felt like she had arrived.

The first thing Nick noticed was the quiet.

Not complete silence—there was still the distant hum of engines warming in the garages, the low murmur of mechanics talking over headsets, the echo of footsteps against concrete—but it lacked the surprising edge it used to have. The noise no longer pressed in on him, rather it comforted him.

Nick sat on the pit wall with his helmet resting beside him, suit zipped halfway down, the cool morning air brushing against the sweat at the back of his neck. The circuit stretched out in front of him, empty for now, the asphalt dark and smooth under a sky just beginning to lighten.

Final race weekend in Abu Dhabi.

It was a whole new season.

He rolled his shoulders slowly, feeling the faint ache that still lingered when he moved too quickly. The doctors had warned him it might never fully go away. Old injuries had a way of announcing themselves at inconvenient moments.

Nick didn’t mind.

Pain was a reminder of what it felt like to lose someone he loved.

He heard footsteps behind him and turned right away.

Areum stopped beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed. She was dressed simply—jeans, a white blouse, hair pulled back loosely. No staff hovering nearby. No attempt to blend in or stand out.

Just her.

“You’re up early,” she said quietly.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Nick replied. “You?”

She smiled faintly. “Same.”

They stood together for a moment, watching the sun creep higher over the circuit, light spilling across the empty track beautifully.

A year ago, they would have had to hide like this.

A year ago, she wouldn’t have been allowed anywhere near the pit wall without layers of coordination and explanation. He wouldn’t have risked even a glance in her direction during a race weekend.

Now, no one stopped them.

A mechanic passed by, nodded politely, and kept walking.

Areum leaned against the barrier, folding her arms. “Does it ever get old?” she asked.

Nick followed her gaze out toward the track. “The nerves?” He shook his head. “No. The noise does.”

She laughed softly. “Not that, I meant having me around.”

“Oh,” Nick reacted. “For everyone else, probably not. For me, maybe.”

They both fell into laughter, with Areum even playfully hitting Nick.

Nick glanced at her then, really looked—at the way the early light caught in her hair, at the faint shadows under her eyes from late nights in the studio, at the calm ease in her posture that hadn’t been there before.

“Are you ready to see me win it all?” he asked.

She met his gaze. “Yeah. I am.”.

The season had not been easy, neither was the recovery.

Nick, understandably, missed the last three races of the season and finished second overall in the Drivers’ Championship.

He returned to the car sooner than anyone expected, however, it was later than he would have liked. After months of physical therapy and recovery, he had built back most of the physical conditioning needed to compete

The first few races back were even more intense than last year. From the start, Nick fought for wins in almost every race, earning a respectable 7 wins and five additional podium finishes by the final race, bringing him once again to P2 going into the final race.

Once he accepted what had happened—accepted that the crash would always be part of him,—something loosened inside him. The hesitation faded. The confidence returned, not reckless or desperate, but grounded.

He drove better, smarter, and the results followed. He was framed as the favorite for Champion.

Through it all, Areum stayed.

Not always at the track—her schedule didn’t allow for that—but present in ways that mattered. Late-night calls when he couldn’t sleep. Messages timed carefully around time zones. Visits during breaks that felt ordinary in the best way possible.

When a photo surfaced—Nick leaving a restaurant with his hand resting lightly at the small of her back—it circulated for a day, maybe two, before being swallowed by something else. There were comments. There always were.

But they responded with announcements. After some disappointment after Areum ran out from the concert in Vegas, Enstone’s PA team had prepared a series of posts and videos highlighting how Nick and Areum had been childhood sweethearts, and how they both pushed and motivated each other to excel in their respective careers.

People adjusted.

The world learned.

Areum’s management adapted first.

Not dramatically. Not with sweeping statements or declarations of support. They simply… shifted. Schedules were adjusted with a little more flexibility. Appearances became less rigid. Interviews stopped dancing around the obvious.

While it wasn’t perfect, Areum couldn’t complain.

Her music changed too, because she had changed.

Her next album wasn’t about escape or endurance. It wasn’t about longing framed as strength or distance framed as romance. It was about how hearts could move fast, perhaps even faster than the speed of love itself.

Fans noticed.

Some resisted, but most listened.

The younger ones wrote messages about feeling seen. Older fans talked about growth, about how it felt like watching someone step into a life rather than perform one.

A post from a young couple in Japan went viral. They related how their story, of a track star and a theater actor, followed a similar path.

Areum read some of those messages late at night, sitting beside Nick on the couch, her feet tucked under her, phone glowing softly in the dark.

“You don’t have to read all of them,” he’d said once.

“I know,” she replied. “But I want to.”

The public learned to accept them the way the public always does.

Gradually.

They stopped being a story and started being a fact.

Nick Young, World Championship contender.

Lee Areum, global artist.

Together.

Not hidden.

Not dramatized.

Just… there.

It wasn’t perfect.

There were still questions. Still speculation. Still the occasional posts wondering what it meant for someone like her to choose a life that wasn’t entirely consumed by the industry.

Areum didn’t read those.

She had no desire to.

The final race arrived sooner than either of them expected.

It always did.

Nick stood on the grid as the cars rolled into place, engine vibrations coursing through his veins. The air felt heavier here, warmer, charged with expectation. Championship weekends carried a different weight—a sense that something was ending no matter how it turned out.

Areum watched in person this time, in the pits with Marcus and Reyes, hands clasped loosely in front of her.

She didn’t wave.

She didn’t smile for the cameras.

She just watched.

When Nick caught sight of her on the big screen, hair pulled back against the heat, something inside him settled completely.

The lights came on.

The race unfolded with brutal efficiency.

There were no miracles. No dramatic late overtakes. No rain to scramble strategy or safety cars to reset the field. It was a race built on sheer will and desire–whoever wanted it the most would take it home.

Nick did what he had done all season.

He drove.

Lap after lap, he held position. Consistently managing the gap, he responded calmly when pressure came.

When the checkered flag waved, the excitement and joy hit like a freight train.

He crossed the line.

“Nick Young, YOU ARE THE WORLD CHAMPION”

The radio erupted.

Nick screamed back over the radio.

For the entire cool down lap, he couldn’t help but cry underneath the helmet, he had achieved his childhood dream. Following the obligatory post-cooldown donut display on the main straight, the newest F1 champion piloted his car carefully back toward the pits, hands steady on the wheel, heart pounding with something that felt a lot like peace.

The celebration was loud.

Championship celebrations always were.

The world surged around them—cameras flashing, mechanics shouting, champagne popping somewhere behind him—but the space between them felt strangely untouched by it all.

She stood there waiting with the rest of the team. She wasn’t trying to hide.

No cap pulled low. No sunglasses. No staff forming a shield around her. Just Areum, standing with her hands folded loosely in front of her, eyes fixed on him as if the rest of the circuit no longer existed.

For a second, neither of them moved.

She smiled when he stopped in front of her, that familiar, quiet smile that had followed him through hotel rooms and late-night calls and recovery days when the future felt uncertain.

“You did it,” she said.

“I did,” he replied. Then, softer, “We did.”

Her breath hitched almost imperceptibly.

Nick lifted his hands slowly, giving her every chance to step back.

She didn’t.

Instead, she reached for him first, fingers curling into the fabric of his race suit, anchoring him there like she’d been doing all year.

He leaned down.

The kiss was unhurried.

The simple, unmistakable press of lips that carried a year’s worth of fear, distance, recovery, and choice into a single, grounding moment.

She kissed him back without restraint, without looking around, without apology.

The noise didn’t stop.

The cameras didn’t disappear.

But nothing interrupted them.

When they finally pulled apart, her forehead rested lightly against his chest, and Nick felt her laugh softly, the sound warm and disbelieving.

“So,” she murmured. “World Champion.”

He smiled down at her. “Still yours.”

She looked up at him then, eyes bright, completely unafraid.

“Good,” she said. “Because I wasn’t planning on sharing.”

He laughed, the tension leaving him all at once, and wrapped his arms around her as the reality of it settled fully into place.

This was them—out in the open, exactly where they had chosen to be.