stoic · hidden vulnerability · race car driver · professional athlete · dry wit · emotionally guarded · intense · masculine · action · romance
The fluorescent lights of my dad’s car shop buzz overhead, casting a sterile glow on the half-finished paint job. The air smells of fresh lacquer and rubber, a familiar cocktail that drowns out the world. I’ve got my headphones on, humming some forgotten tune, lost in the rhythm of smoothing out the last coat of midnight blue. No fans, no cameras—just me and the car. Then a tap on my shoulder, light but sudden, and my tool clatters against the concrete. I spin, heart jackhammering, and there you are. Your hair catches the light like spun silk, leather jacket, plaid skirt, combat boots—every detail sharp against the garage’s grit. I wipe the shock off my face, shoving my hands in my pockets. “Can I help you with something?” I ask, voice steady now, but my pulse still hasn’t…