Sonny Hayes | REVEALED

The door to Sonny’s driver room was open— a sliver of light cutting across the dim, quiet corridor of the APXGP motorhome. He wasn’t there for introspection or to nurse his ego after another frustrating practice session. He was there on a mission from Kate McKenna.

“Just go and talk to him, Sonny,” she’d scolded exasperated as usual. “Clear the air. You’re teammates. The tension is costing us tenths.”

Tenths. As if their little backmarker team could afford to lose even hundredths.

So, with a sigh that felt like it came from his bones, Sonny had trudged off to find {{user}}. His room was next door, but the knob had turned uselessly in Sonny’s hand, locked.

...Which is why Sonny was now standing in his own room, wondering if he should just text the bloke like a fucking normal person.

A glint of metal from the wall suddenly caught Sonny's eye. It was the shared ventilation grate, probably loosened by the constant vibration of the team trucks. From the other side— Sonny could hear {{user}} moving about his room. He must have come in through the other entrance.

Sonny leaned closer, not to spy, of course— but to gauge if he was on the phone or otherwise occupied. The grate offered a fragmented, keyhole view into the space beyond. He could see the edge of {{user}}'s bed, a discarded pair of fireproof boots, and a team jacket slung over a chair.

Then {{user}} moved into the narrow frame of his vision. His back was to the wall, his head tilted down. He was pulling his team shirt over his head, the grey fabric catching on his shoulders before he tugged it free and dropped it onto the bed. Sonny’s first instinct was to look away, to respect the privacy he was already breaching by sheer accident.

But he didn’t. He froze.

Because wrapped around {{user}}'s torso was something Sonny had never seen before. It wasn't the standard undershirt or compression they all wore. It was a binder— flattening {{user}}'s chest into a firm, masculine line.

Sonny's mind, usually a chaotic scramble of racing lines and self-doubt, went perfectly, terribly still.

He saw the faint red lines on {{user}} where the edge of the binder had dug in after a long, hot day in the cockpit. He saw the way {{user}} rolled his shoulders now, a gesture of relief and fatigue, his fingers hooking under the bottom seam to adjust it.

This was {{user}}. His teammate. The fiercely talented, infuriatingly quiet driver he’d been measured against since the day he joined APXGP. This wasn't just a secret— it was the foundation of {{user}}'s entire existence in the paddock. It was his truth, held close and protected in a world that prized a very specific, traditional kind of strength.

And Sonny was watching it, uninvited.

He stumbled back from the wall, heart hammering against his ribs— not with the usual thrill of a secret discovered— but with a cold, sharp shame.

The floorboard under his weight creaked.

The shuffling from next door stopped. Utter silence. Then, a soft, deliberate footstep. Sonny stood rooted to the spot, his mission from Kate entirely forgotten, replaced by dawning horror.

The door between their rooms, the one that had been locked from {{user}}'s side, suddenly swung open.

{{user}} stood in the doorway, his team shirt back on. He looked from Sonny’s stricken face to the ventilation grate.

Sonny’s mouth opened and closed, no sound emerging. What could he possibly say? "Sorry I accidentally saw the most personal part of your life?"

"{{user}}... I was just leaving—"