Street racer and his rival’s girl

The city hummed around him—neon lights flickering, engines growling in the distance, somewhere a siren wailing like a warning no one planned to heed. Espen sat alone behind the wheel of his car, a stripped-down black beast that looked like it had clawed its way out of a junkyard brawl and won.

He cracked his knuckles against the leather steering wheel, eyes half-lidded, cigarette burning down in the ashtray untouched. The seat creaked beneath him as he shifted, but otherwise, the car was still. Silent. Like it was holding its breath.

He should’ve been thinking about the race. The stakes. The payout. The idiot in the souped-up Supra who kept calling him grandpa. But instead, his thoughts drifted—like they always did—back to that sharp little truth he couldn’t shake:

He had no one waiting for him at the finish line.

No texts to answer. No one to impress. Just a tank of gas and a habit of making bad decisions look effortless.

Not that girls weren’t throwing themselves at him. But they didn’t want him, not really. They wanted the cool street racer that he was for two minutes. He was just some poor loser living in his car who happened to be good at reckless shit. He would spare them the dissapointment.

“Another night, another reckless cry for help,” he muttered dryly, drumming his fingers on the gearshift. “Real healthy coping mechanism, Espen. Ten out of ten.”

The cold wind slipped through the cracked window, stirring the edges of an old photo taped to the dash—faded, wrinkled, never spoken about. He glanced at it once, then looked away. Too much to say. No one to say it to.

Out there, behind him, the other drivers were revving, yelling, hyping themselves up like this was a party. For Espen, it was a ritual. A purge.

The radio clicked off. The world narrowed.

Three sharp taps on the hood—the signal.

He rolled his neck once. Cracked it. The tension slipped off him like an old coat. And just like that, the version of him who cared about anything at all—gone.

His hand closed around the shifter.

The engine rumbled awake like a beast tasting blood.

Streetlights blurred. Tires screeched.

And Espen? He became the road.

No hesitation. No mercy. Just muscle, smoke, and fire.

The tires screamed as they tore off the line, engines snarling in protest. The street lit up in a flash of headlights and adrenaline. Espen’s car shot forward like a bullet, hugging the cracked asphalt with a kind of violent grace that didn’t belong to the living.

Concrete blurred past him—buildings, street signs, shadows of people too close to the curb. He didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe.

Every part of him locked in.

He knew these streets like they were coded into his blood. The pothole on Seventh. The blind turn by the underpass. The way the light hit the oil-slick curve by the canal, just enough to send a rookie spinning.

But Espen wasn’t a rookie. Espen was a ghost in a machine.

Up ahead, headlights surged beside him—too clean, too cocky. That’d be Kade. Rich kid. Golden boy. Built his car in a custom shop with money that smelled like perfume.

Espen glanced sideways. Kade’s window rolled down.

“Didn’t think they still let you race,” Kade called over the roar, smirking. “Thought you were too busy crying into your oil filter.”

Espen smirked back, unbothered. “Didn’t think they made race suits in daddy’s size.”

Kade laughed, but there was heat in his eyes. He downshifted. The chase sharpened.

The street narrowed. Alleyway straight ahead. Most wouldn’t dare take it—not at this speed, not without traction.

Espen did.

He jerked the wheel hard and shot into the dark, concrete walls kissing either side of the car as he threaded the needle. A blur of graffiti, flickering light. When he burst out the other side, Kade was a half-second behind—close, but not enough.

Then, a flash on the overpass.

Crowds gathered to watch these races, and they leaned over the railing like gods watching mortals burn.

That’s when Espen saw her.

Shadow dark, eyes darker. Leaning against the guardrail with one boot hooked over the other. She wasn’t cheering like the others. She just watched—cool, unreadable, like she knew how this ended and didn’t care.

Kade’s girl.

Of course she was. Standing too close to his car. Wrapped in his jacket.

Espen’s grip tightened.

She looked at him.

Not past him. At him.

And something in Espen faltered—just for a second. A second too long.

Kade surged forward.

Espen snapped back, cursed under his breath, and dropped a gear. The car roared like it was insulted by the delay.

But the image of her burned behind his eyes.

He didn’t even know her name.

Didn’t stop his heart from making room for it.

The finish line was nothing more than a crack in the road, but when Espen’s tires tore across it first, the world erupted.

People screamed. Engines revved in salute. A firework popped somewhere behind him—cheap, loud, unnecessary.

He killed the engine.

Silence hit harder than the noise ever could.

His pulse was still thundering, every nerve electric, like his body hadn’t caught up with the fact that the race was over. He sat there for a beat longer than he meant to, hands resting on the wheel, jaw clenched. Cool on the outside. Chaos underneath.

Kade skidded in seconds later. Too late. Too loud.

Espen didn’t look at him.

He stepped out of the car, boots crunching gravel, the night air sharp in his lungs. Sweat clung to the back of his neck. People moved around him, called his name, slapped his back. He didn’t hear a word.

Because she was walking toward him.

Slow. Sure. That same unreadable look in her eyes like she’d seen this play out in a dream once and was just here to confirm the ending.

Espen straightened, suddenly all too aware of everything—his breath, his heartbeat, the way his shirt stuck to his back.

She was even more dangerous up close. The kind of beautiful that made you forget things—like how to speak, how to blink, how to be a person.

Kade’s girl, he reminded himself.

Still walking.

She didn’t say a word. Just stopped in front of him, close enough that he caught the scent of her—smoke, vanilla, and something colder underneath.

Espen swallowed. His mouth was dry.

What the hell was she doing?

His brain scrambled for something cool to say. Found nothing. Just white noise and a warning siren blaring, Don’t get involved. Don’t be stupid.

Too late.

Her gaze flicked over him, steady. Curious.

God, she was stunning.

And he hated how badly he wanted her to look at him again the second she turned away.

He shrugged off the roar of his fellow racers, the high-fives and pats on the back. His mind was caught in a whirlwind, driven by emotions he had long buried. What was it about her? The way she laughed, throwing her head back, as though the world around her held no weight? Espen stepped forward, instinctively drawn to the warmth in her gaze, a stark contrast to the cold reality he had grown accustomed to.

“Kade’s going to be pissed,” a voice joked from behind him, snapping Espen out of his daze. His interest was getting noticed by his friends. He could feel the old rivalries creeping closer, but he didn’t care. In that moment, he wanted to take a risk that had nothing to do with racing. He wanted to know her name. Espen’s resolve began to crack. For the first time in a long time, he felt something—an inexplicable desire to break free from the chains of his past and seek whatever flicker of happiness this strange connection could bring. He knew the risks, that Kade wouldn’t take kindly to him even glancing in her direction, but right then, with the taste of victory still sweet on his tongue, the fear of the consequences paled in comparison to the possibility of what could be.

“What's your name?” he asked, his voice low but steady, determination flickering behind his hesitation.