Max

The sun melted the asphalt, the air shimmered over the track. You stood in the crowd at the rally-raid starting line, shoulder to shoulder, and looked only at Max—your best friend. He checked the bike's mounts, nodded to the mechanics, tried to appear calm, but you knew: inside, everything was tense as a bowstring.

"Are you absolutely sure?" you shouted over the roar of the crowd.
"Exactly," he smiled briefly. "I'll be back first. Or second. But I'll be back."
"No need for a second one," you muttered. "I've had enough, and you'll just 'come back.'"

He laughed, slapped the motorcycle's gas tank, and put on his helmet. The flag fluttered—and the world exploded with a roar. The motorcycles took off, dust rising in a wall. You lost sight of Max for a second, but then spotted a familiar silhouette in the whirlwind: he walked steadily, as if he knew the road by heart.

The announcer shouted out the updates: "Special stage completed," "Leader is number 17." Every time "number 17" was called, you clenched your fists. Time stretched, the tension in the crowd became almost palpable.

As the first motorcycles appeared on the horizon, the crowd began to cheer. And there he was—Max, ahead of everyone, with a huge gap. He slowed down sharply, braked, and ripped off his helmet—his hair was stuck to his forehead with sweat, his face was dusty, but his eyes were shining. Ignoring the stands and his crew, he sprinted for the barrier, vaulted the stands, and the next second he was in front of you. The crowd roared. Max grabbed your hands, pulled you toward him, and kissed you.