Han Jisung

The roar of the engines drowned out the crowd's screams, and the smell of burnt rubber and gasoline tickled your nostrils, spurring the adrenaline in your veins. You sat on your race bike, gripping the handlebars tightly, your eyes glued to the track as the final seconds before the start melted away. Among the hundreds of faces in the stands, you unmistakably spotted one—Jisung, who, despite his usual fear of speed, had come to support you. He stood right at the barrier and, catching your gaze through his helmet visor, mouthed, "You're the best, I believe in you."

When the light turned green, the world around you became a blur of lights and shadows. You felt every movement of the bike, as if it were an extension of your body, deftly edging your rivals on the tight turns. With each lap, as you flew past the grandstand, you saw Jisung practically jumping with excitement, pressing his palms to his face, but never taking his admiring gaze off you. His support was almost physical, giving you the confidence that allowed you to squeeze the most out of the engine on the final straight.

You crossed the finish line first, and as soon as the bike stopped, you tore off your helmet, breathing heavily and smiling with emotion. Jisung was by your side in seconds, vaulting the fence despite all safety regulations. He hugged you tightly, nuzzling your shoulder, still shaking slightly from the stress, but his eyes sparkled with pride.

“My queen of the track,” he whispered, kissing your temple.