As they melted into the crowd, the night wrapped around them — a world of adrenaline, loyalty, and bonds. For Emilia, Diego's constant presence was a reminder that no matter how fast she raced or how far she pushed, she would never be alone. And though Diego hid it behind his playful grin, Emilia was his world, his family — the only thing worth protecting in the wild, unpredictable realm of Jagoon.
Tonight, they would celebrate. Tomorrow, the streets would call again.
The alarm blared, its shrill tone cutting through the silence like a knife. Emilia groaned, her hand slapping blindly at the nightstand until she silenced the infernal sound. She buried her face deeper into the pillow, clinging to the last threads of sleep. The comfort of her bed was an irresistible cocoon, the world beyond it a distant reality.
But curiosity got the better of her, and she cracked one eye open. The red digits of the clock glared back at her: 7:30 AM.
Her heart stuttered.
"Oh, crap!" she muttered, a jolt of panic propelling her out of bed. Her feet tangled in the sheets, nearly sending her sprawling onto the floor. "I'm going to be so late!"
She sprinted to the bathroom, her mind a whirlwind of exasperation. Teeth were brushed at lightning speed, water splashed on her face, and a towel hastily scrubbed away the remnants of sleep. As she tugged a brush through her hair, she caught her reflection — wide eyes, cheeks flushed with urgency, and a hint of frustration simmering in her gaze.
"Why do I always do this to myself?" she mumbled.
Ten minutes later, dressed in fitted black jeans and a crisp white blouse, she grabbed her phone and rushed toward the living room, slipping on her boots mid-stride.
The scent of fresh coffee and warm pancakes slowed her just a fraction. There, standing at the kitchen counter with a smug grin, was Diego. He was clad in his usual worn jeans and a grey T-shirt, his hair still messy from sleep. The table was set: a stack of golden pancakes, a bowl of sliced fruit, and a steaming mug of coffee.
"Running late again, I see," Diego drawled, flipping a pancake with effortless ease.
She shot him a glare as she snatched her leather jacket from the back of a chair. "Not everyone can wake up with zero responsibilities, Diego."
He chucked, grabbed a pancake, folded it neatly, and — before she could react — shoved it toward her mouth. "Open up, Nightshade."
"Diego!" she protested, but his determined grin left no room for argument. She took a bite, the syrupy sweetness melting on her tongue.
He handed her a glass of orange juice, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "You can't race on empty, and you sure as hell can't work on empty."
She rolled her eyes but drank the juice obediently, the cool liquid refreshing her parched throat.
"Happy now?" she muttered, wiping her mouth.
"Ecstatic." He grabbed her bag from the couch, slinging it over her shoulder. "Don't forget this. I packed your lunch — and yes, it includes a snack."
She shook her head, a reluctant smile pulling at her lips. "You know, for someone who acts like a pain in the ass, you do a good impression of a big brother."
He leaned back against the counter, arms crossed, his grin softening. "Someone's gotta keep you alive. Can't have my star racer missing out on life because she skipped breakfast."
She laughed, the tension of the morning ebbing away. Diego's presence had a way of grounding her, no matter how fast her world spun.
"Thanks, Diego. I owe you one."
He winked. "You owe me a win this Friday. Now go, or you'll owe your boss an explanation."
She shot him a mock salute and rushed to the door. "See you tonight!"
"Drive safe, Nightshade," he called after her, his voice warm with affection.
As the door clicked shut behind her, Diego lingered for a moment, the smile on his face fading just a touch. Protecting Emilia wasn't just a habit — it was a promise. And he intended to keep it, no matter what the world threw their way.
The screech of tyres through the parking garage as Emilia swings her car into a tight spot. She killed the engine and bolted out, her boots thudding against the concrete floor. The clock on her dashboard had taunted her with 7:58 AM, and the two minutes left to spare felt like a cruel joke.
Her breath came quick and shallow as she sprinted to the staff entrance of Rossi's Diner, tugging her apron over her head and tying it around her waist in one practice. The scent of fresh-brewed coffee and sizzling bacon wafted toward her as she pushed through the swinging kitchen doors, but there was no time to indulge in the familiar comfort.
She slipped into the dining area just as a deep, clipped voice ran smoothly. Alright, everyone, line up! I want this place to run smoothly today. No mistakes, no delays."
Mr. Rossi, a tall man in his early fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and a perpetual scowl, scanned the line of attendants with hawk-like precision. His eyes narrowed, his brow furrowing deeper as he prepared to call out Emilia's absence.
"Where the hell is—"
"Right here," Emilia said, breathless but steady, as she slid into the last stealing line. She smoothed her apron, willing her chest to be stolen.
Mr. Rossi's eyes met hers, his eyes sifting as a faint smirk played on his lips. "Cutting it close, aren't we, Nightshade?" His voice was low, edged with a mix of disapproval and reluctant amusement.
She smiled just enough to be polite. "Wouldn't want to run smoothly fun."
"Fun?" He snorted. "We'll see how much fun you have if you're late again. Customers don't wait, and neither do I." He paused, his gaze softening just a fraction. "You ready to work?"
"Always." Her tone was firm, the confidence in her eyes unshakeable.
He gave a brief nod. "Good. You're on tables six through twelve. And keep that energy up — we're short-staffed today."
"Yes, boss."