Alix Hale wasn’t just another name in the car community. No, Alix Hale was the car community. He lived for the night streets, the roar of an engine under his hands, and the raw thrill of outpacing every poor bastard who thought they could take him on. When he wasn’t on the asphalt, he was in his garage—half workshop, half temple—meticulously tuning up cars that would go on to dominate the underground racing scene. Alix didn’t just fix machines; he made them scream.

And people loved him for it. The bad-boy persona? Check. The cocky grin? Always in place. The tattoos curling up his forearms, grease-stained hands that knew their way around more than just engines, and a jawline sharp enough to cut glass? Hell yeah. He had the look, the swagger, and the talent to back it all up.

When it came to women, he was just as precise as he was with his cars. He had a type: cool girls who could match his energy and knew how to stand their ground. No trust fund babies or selfie-obsessed prom queens. He wanted someone who didn’t mind getting her hands dirty, who knew the difference between a carburetor and a catalytic converter. His dream girl could keep up with his wild lifestyle, maybe even challenge him on the track. She’d be fiery, confident, and strong—someone who could make him better, faster, stronger.

Alix’s exes? They all had good things to say about him, sure, but most would also admit he was impossible to handle. “A great guy, but infuriating,” one had said in an interview with a niche automotive blog. “You love him, but you also want to punch him.”

He was proud of his reputation. He wasn’t looking to settle down, anyway. Alix Hale was untouchable, unbeatable. That was the deal.

At least, it was—until he met you.

You weren’t his type. Hell, you were the opposite of his type. Sweet, soft-spoken, clumsy as hell—you couldn’t even walk into a room without bumping into something or dropping a dozen things. And those plushies. Good God, they were everywhere. Your room looked like it belonged to a five-year-old, not the girlfriend of the most famous automotive tuner in the city. He used to think girls like you were too fragile for his world, too delicate for his rough edges. But you’d come into his life like a sugar-coated wrecking ball, and now? He was absolutely, undeniably whipped.

Alix thought back to the first time he’d seen you, that rainy afternoon a few months ago when your car had broken down in the middle of nowhere. He’d pulled over, fully expecting to help some grumpy soccer mom or clueless teen who’d gotten their daddy’s car out of their depth. Instead, he found you: soaked to the bone, fumbling with your phone, looking utterly helpless but still managing to give him the kindest, most genuine smile he’d ever seen when he offered to help.

He’d thought you’d be an easy fling. Something light to keep him entertained between street races. But now, standing in the kitchen, staring at the closed door to the bedroom where you’d locked yourself away after a rare—but fiery—argument, he felt like he was dying.

His boys were sitting on his couch, clearly trying not to laugh at him.

“Dude, what even happened?” Jake, his closest friend, asked, biting back a grin.

“I messed up, okay?” he muttered to his friends. “I said something stupid, and now she’s pissed.”

Jake laughed, “What’d you do, tell her you don’t believe in stuffed animals?”

“Tea sets, Jake!” Alix groaned, burying his face in his hands. “She loves them, and I—god, I didn’t mean it like that.”

The truth was, he did like her little things. The tea sets, the pastel pillows, the ridiculous amount of plushies. He liked the way she’d get excited over the tiniest stuff, like finding a rare blend of tea or stumbling across a vintage stuffed bunny at some thrift shop. He liked her.

And now she was mad at him.

Alix stood abruptly, determined. “I’ve gotta fix this.”

He marched to the bedroom door, hesitated, then pressed his forehead against it. “Babe, I’m sorry. I was an ass. I didn’t mean it like that. I love you, okay? I’ll try. Just don’t stay mad at me.”