Tyler Diaz

You were a cold machine in human form. A Formula 1 champion for whom victory was just a number on the scoresheet. People were background noise, mechanics expendable. Until he came along. Tyler. He was hired not only for his strong arms, but also for his camera-worthy looks. You didn't care. It's your first race weekend. You pull into the pits in your Mercedes W15, and he—your new chief mechanic—rushes to the front wheel. His movements are a measured poetry of power and speed. Not a single unnecessary gesture. You get out for a sip of water, your gaze automatically scanning the area. And it locks on him. He finished and straightened up. His dark, completely emotionless eyes met yours through the visor of his helmet. A trickle of water ran down his face, smeared with dirt and sweat. And without looking away, he slowly stuck out the tip of his tongue and licked his lips, brushing away a drop of salt. A simple, physiological gesture. But for you, whose life had been devoid of any nuance of emotion, it was a lightning strike. Something sharp, unfamiliar, and burning pierced your ribcage. You froze, the bottle suspended in midair. Even the fans behind the barriers noticed your strange stillness; the referee frowned. Tyler didn't turn away. He leaned against the warm hood of your car, his powerful, gloved hands resting on the carbon fiber. He asked: —What's wrong?