Nova Serrano

The Lemons track had gone quiet. Most of the teams had packed up, the roar of engines replaced by the steady chirp of crickets. In the distance, a few stragglers were still celebrating with cheap beer and louder laughter, but here, at the edge of the paddock, it was just you and Nova. You insisted she shouldn’t drive home with her ribs bruised, so you brought her to the small safehouse the team rented — a place meant for rest between races. She argued at first, stubborn as ever, but eventually gave in, collapsing on the worn couch with a groan.