Here's the continuation:
Dee woke up to the sound of silence. She stretched, feeling a bit more relaxed after a good night's sleep. After a refreshing shower, she headed downstairs, expecting to find Rayyan in the living room or kitchen. But the house was empty.
A pang of worry hit her as she realized Rayyan wasn't there. Maybe he had left because of what she said the night before. Dee felt a twinge of guilt and regret. Had she said something wrong? Had she pushed him away?
As she walked around the empty house, Dee's mind replayed their conversation from the night before. She couldn't shake off the feeling that something was off. Why had Rayyan been so quiet and distant after she told him about the drunk man? And what was bothering him?
Dee's curiosity got the better of her. She wanted answers. Why had Rayyan lied about not knowing what happened to him? What was he hiding? And what was going on with him and Ayat?
Determined to get to the bottom of things, Dee decided to try and reach out to Rayyan. She pulled out her phone and sent him a message. "Hey, where are you? Everything okay?"
As she waited for a response, Dee's mind whirled with questions and doubts. What was Rayyan's secret? And how would she uncover the truth
She put of curiosity call Rayyan .
He picked up the call, but said nothing.
The silence stretched like an awkward ghost between them.
"Can you at least say something?" she asked, voice thin with worry.
Nothing.
She squeezed her eyes shut, her breath shaky. "Hello? Are you even—"
"I'm fine," he finally said. Quiet. Tired. Distant. "I'm at the company. I just… need time alone."
Her throat tightened. "Okay," she whispered. And then the line went dead.
The phone slipped from her hand and landed on the couch with a soft thud. She stared at nothing, feeling something sharp twist in her chest.
"It's not just me," she muttered to the empty room. "He shuts down too. Every damn time."
She got up, dragging herself toward her room. Disaster. It looked like a storm had thrown a tantrum inside — clothes everywhere, books under the bed, a random screwdriver on her pillow (why?). She didn't feel like cleaning. She did it anyway. Scrubbing out her frustration one hoodie at a time.
When she came back to the living room, something dark caught her eye near the couch.
Blood.
She blinked, heart skipping. "His hand…"
Panic hit for half a second. Then she rushed over, grabbed tissues and cleaner, and dropped to her knees. She scrubbed like she could erase the memory of him walking out — jaw clenched, hand bleeding, eyes that didn't meet hers.
The day limped by after that. She waited. She stared at the door. She even yelled at the microwave for taking too long. But still… no sign of him.
Then, finally — salvation in the form of a ringtone.
"Yooo!" came the overly excited voice on the other end. "What's up with the Saturday showdown? I need to give the boys the green light."
She flopped back on the couch and rubbed her face. "West track. Four PM. Be there early — we need to test the bikes. You, me, the usual idiots. He's bringing the new beast too."
"No way. The black one?"
"That's the one. Thing purrs like a monster with asthma," she said, cracking a weak smile.
"Love it. Three test laps?"
"Three. Then full countdown. Don't forget your helmet this time, genius."
"Okay okay! Hey, are we doing anything new with the setup?"
She hesitated, then sat up straighter. "Actually… yeah. I've been thinking. That place is falling apart. I wanna fix it up. Better barriers, maybe neon underlights on the ramps."
"You mean renovate the illegal track?"
"Exactly," she said proudly. "Illegal doesn't mean ugly. Plus, if I crash, I want it to be somewhere stylish."
A snort came through the phone. "You're insane. I love it. I'll bring the gear. And snacks. You ride like a beast and then eat like five-year-old on a sugar high."
She laughed — a real one this time. "Appreciate it. I'll text the plan."
"Love ya, chaos queen."
"Love you more, donut gremlin."
The call ended. She stared at the door again.
Still no footsteps. Still no him.
She sighed, curled up tighter on the couch, and whispered to the quiet, "Come back already… idiot."
Days passed.
Not hours. Not minutes. Days.
And still… no sign of him.
Dee waited. Every morning she woke up hoping to see his shoes dumped by the door. Every night she kept one light on just in case he came back hungry or tired or anything at all.
But nothing.
So she buried herself in work. Not the boring kind — the loud, dangerous, illegally fast kind. Racing.
Her sketchbooks were everywhere — filled with track maps, ramp upgrades, bike modifications, lighting ideas, and one particularly unstable loop idea she labeled "DON'T DO THIS UNLESS YOU WANNA DIE" in red ink.
One afternoon, fed up with her slow progress, she grabbed her phone and called her best disaster partner. Ayat .
"Yo."
"Finally," Dee groaned. "I need you."
"I'm flattered, but could you be more specific?"
"I'm modifying my bike. Thinking of switching to dual-core hydraulics for sharper turns, and maybe adding the under-chassis coolers."
There was a pause. "Is this about Saturday?"
Dee hesitated. "…Yeah. I'm racing."
"You what— Dee. No. You said you weren't gonna race. Especially not now."
"I have to," Dee said firmly. "I need it. I need this. And besides… it's not about him."
"It's entirely about him."
"Well, maybe. But also about me. And my gorgeous, deadly machine."
Ayat sighed dramatically. "Fine. But I swear, if you crash and ruin that pretty face, I'm disowning you. I'll be there. Just late. I'm getting you something."
"Better be food."
"It's not food."
"Better be shiny."
"Oh, it's shiny."
---
Saturday – 4:00 PM – West Track
Dee arrived first. As always.
The illegal race strip looked like a ghost town from an action movie — cracked pavement, graffiti-covered metal barriers, flickering streetlights, and the faint smell of gasoline.
She got to work.
"Yo! You three!" she called to the hired crew she knew from her old races. "Move the black bike to the left platform. Adjust the front fork spacing — I need tighter control on bends."
She knelt down beside her custom bike, wrench in hand, adjusting bolts and replacing pads. Then she pulled out a measuring tape and started walking the track — counting steps, testing traction with her boot, noting angles of the curves, and muttering to herself.
"Need to move that barrier ten degrees. That's a death corner right now. Unless someone wants a broken collarbone."
By the time the sun started dipping, sweat clung to her neck and grease was all over her hands. Still no sign of Ayat.
At 5:12 PM, a voice yelled from behind, "Stop looking like a mechanic. I brought you a present."
Dee turned around. Ayat walked up, grinning, holding a matte black helmet with sharp gold stripes across the side.
Dee gasped. "Shut up. You didn't."
"Oh, I did."
She snatched it and turned it over in her hands like it was treasure. "It's gorgeous. It looks like a weapon."
"It is a weapon. And it'll keep your brain inside your skull. You're welcome."
They spent the next four hours setting up. Fixing ramps. Repainting the starting line. Testing tire grips. Ayat installed portable speakers for music. Dee adjusted the neon underlights. Together they laid out the track cones, tested smoke bursts, and ran engine checks.
People trickled in as the sun disappeared.
First the regular racers.
Then the wild ones — stunt drivers, off-record speed junkies, and silent types with nothing to lose.
Then came the VIPs. Expensive jackets. Cooler-than-thou sunglasses. Fancy cars that looked too pretty to race.
And then, at exactly 9:00 PM, he arrived.
Black car. Black gloves. Black eyes that scanned the track like it was already his.
The King. Kevin Maroni.
Known for wrecking three bikes, winning nine championships, and once punching a traffic cop on live TV.
He stepped out. Looked around. His eyes landed on Dee.
"You must be the girl who's been making noise," he said, half a smirk on his lips.
Dee crossed her arms. "Noise? No. I make thunder."
A few people around them let out low "oooooh"s.
"I like that," he said. "You racing tonight?"
"I'm not here to watch," she said.
"Neither am I." He nodded at her bike. "Yours?"
"Built it myself."
"Impressive. Shall we?"
They rode side by side to the starting line.
Engines roared to life.
Music pounded.
Smoke swirled.
And the crowd shouted down from ten.
Ten. Nine. Eight…
Dee glanced once at the stands. Still no Rayyan.
Three. Two. One.
They launched.
The race was chaos — wheels spinning, air screaming past her ears, Maroni right at her side the entire time. They tore through corners, slid through sparks, and flew over ramps.
When they crossed the finish line — it was too close to call.
Both their names lit up. Tie.
He pulled off his helmet, laughing. "You're insane."
"You're slow," she teased, catching her breath.
They stood there, shoulders bumping slightly, sweat dripping, adrenaline still roaring through their veins.
"You should race more," he said. "There's fire in you."
She was about to answer when a security guard came running up.
"Miss—uh—sorry to interrupt but… someone's asking for you."
She frowned. "Who?"
"Rayyan. Said he's waiting in the hotel room behind the track."
Dee blinked.
Her heart jumped so fast it nearly tripped over itself.
"I'll be back," she said quickly to Maroni.
And she turned, walking away from the lights, the noise, and the crowd — toward the quiet shadows of the hotel at the back of the track.
Toward him.
Absolutely — I can add more layers to make the scene feel tenser, more emotionally raw, but also carry those subtle funny moments that show Dee and Rayyan's chemistry. Let's make it feel real: a little messy, a little awkward, and deeply human.
She walked down the dim hallway of the trackside hotel, every step echoing like a countdown in her chest.
Somewhere behind her, engines still roared. People still cheered. Music still blasted from cheap speakers.
But here, it was quiet.
Too quiet.
She stopped at Room 207.
Her hand hovered over the knob.
Her heart said turn it.
Her pride said punch him first.
She went with the door.
It creaked open like it knew drama was coming.
And there he was.
Sitting on the edge of the bed like he'd been frozen in regret. Hoodie slouched. Bandaged hand resting in his lap. Eyes heavy — not just tired, but guilty tired.
He looked up.
Didn't say a word.
She stepped inside.
Shut the door.
Didn't blink.
"You look like roadkill," she said.
His lip twitched. "Still prettier than you."
She almost smiled. Almost. But the ache in her chest snapped it away.
"You disappeared," she said, voice sharp as a scalpel. "Ghosted. No text. No call. You didn't even steal snacks on your way out."
"I know."
"You always steal snacks."
"I… forgot."
"You forgot snacks? Oh, you were really going through it."
He stood slowly, wincing as he moved his hand. "I didn't want to leave like that. But if I said goodbye, I would've stayed."
"And that would've been terrible," she said dryly. "Imagine staying and talking like a normal adult."
"I needed space."
"I needed you."
Silence.
He stepped closer. "I didn't know how to come back."
"You knock," she said. "You say, 'Hi, I'm trash, but I missed you.' And then I hit you with a pillow."
He blinked. "Is the pillow mandatory?"
"Oh, absolutely."
There was a pause.
"I'm trash," he said softly. "But I missed you."
She stared at him. Eyes narrowed. Then slowly… she reached behind her, grabbed the nearest pillow from the hotel bed, and whomped him in the chest.
He didn't flinch.
Just smiled.
Finally.
"I saw the race," he said. "You were flying."
"Didn't crash."
"Tied with Maroni."
"He called me thunder," she said smugly.
"That's hot."
"I know."
He laughed quietly. Then he reached toward the helmet in her hand — the sleek black one Ayat bought her.
"You wore it?"
She nodded.
He hesitated. Then, voice low: "Are we okay?"
She looked up at him, still guarded. Still soft.
"Not yet," she said. "But maybe. We could be."
He nodded slowly.
"Good," he said. "Because I also brought snacks. I thought that might help."
She blinked.
"You… actually brought snacks?"
He reached into his backpack and pulled out a crushed bag of spicy chips, a half-melted chocolate bar, and a can of iced coffee.
She stared at it like it was a peace treaty signed in junk food.
"…You do know the chocolate is basically soup now, right?"
"Symbolic effort."
She snorted. "Fine. Truce accepted."
He tilted his head, smiling. "That easy?"
"No," she said, walking past him and flopping on the bed. "But I'm tired, I just beat the king of illegal racing, and I might cry if you say something nice too fast."
He sat beside her, careful not to touch — but close enough to say: I'm here.
"…So," she said after a beat, "how long are you staying this time?"
He leaned back on his elbows. "Until you kick me out."
"Hmm. Might be tomorrow."
"Cool. I'll sleep in my helmet."
She rolled her eyes and handed him the half-melted chocolate. "You're still trash, you know."
"But I'm your trash."
"Ugh."
But she didn't disagree.
They lay side by side on the bed now, staring at the dull ceiling fan as it clicked every few seconds like a broken metronome.
Rayyan turned his head to look at her. "You know... even when I'm at my worst, even when everything's a mess—"
"You are a mess," she cut in, smirking.
He smiled. "Yeah. But even then, it's always you I want to tell everything to."
She turned to face him. "Even when you don't talk?"
He reached out, brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. "Even then. Silence with you still feels better than words with anyone else."
Her throat tightened. She hated how soft that made her feel.
"I hate you," she whispered.
"I know."
"I hate that you say the right things right when I've decided to move on."
"That's because I've learned your timing."
She rolled her eyes, but her fingers found his. "When you're not around, it feels like everything's too loud and too quiet at the same time."
He squeezed her hand gently. "When you're not around, it just doesn't feel like anything at all."
For a while, they just breathed.
Then Dee stood up, tugging his hoodie sleeve. "Let's go. People are probably betting on whether I crashed into a wall or ran off with Kevin Maroni."
Rayyan stood, grabbing his keys. "If you did run off with Maroni, I hope it was for his money, not his personality."
She grinned. "No comment."
---
Back at the tracks
The night air was cooler now, thick with engine grease and adrenaline. Most of the racers were hanging around in groups — laughing, tuning bikes, or loudly exaggerating their speeds.
Dee and Rayyan walked side by side, and a few heads turned.
"Back from your emotional breakdown?" Zayd teased from across the pit.
"Back with snacks," Dee shot back. "And emotional clarity."
Rami whistled. "Who knew therapy came with exhaust fumes?"
Dee high-fived Ayat, who had just finished a drink and was deep in gossip mode. "I told everyone you'd be back," Ayat whispered with a wink. "You and him? Emotional disaster. But elite drama."
Dee rolled her eyes and leaned closer. "Oh, just wait. We're only in season one."
---
Later, on the way home
The car was quiet. Rayyan was driving, one hand on the wheel, the other tangled with Dee's in the middle.
She stared out the window, replaying the race, the hotel, the weird comfort of being next to him again.
Then her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
Text message:
> Dee. I hope you can get it. I know it's too much... but for the king, we have to know the lab. And you have to do that.
—Stape
She sat up straight.
"What?" Rayyan asked, glancing over.
Dee's lips pressed together. She locked the phone.
"Nothing," she said too quickly. "Just something I have to take care of."
He didn't push. But his fingers tightened slightly around hers.