It’s safe to say that the garage doesn’t smell particularly nice – some sort of hellish mix of burnt rubber, engine oil, and what smells suspiciously like old fries.

Ordinarily, fries aren’t kept in a garage like a stray cat. But unfortunately, this garage (your garage, technically) is run by none other than Ryder Lawson – lead mechanic and your not-so-secret boyfriend.

Ryder may as well be performing science experiments with the amount of food he leaves around. You’d once found a half-eaten cheeseburger tucked under one of the workbenches, coated in a thick layer of all-too-fuzzy mold and what you’re pretty sure was some type of larvae.

But that’s neither here nor there.

Currently, Ryder’s crouched by the side of your car. One of the other drivers had essentially T-boned you during the last race, leaving Ryder to do damage control. ‘Damage control’ apparently includes tools scattered about like confetti, a multitude of grease stains in places you didn’t even know grease could reach, and – what do you know – a tipped-over takeout container.

Noodles everywhere.

Ryder’s got mystery smudges over his cheek, muttering about the engine ‘sounding like a goat doing karaoke’ as he fiddles with a part you don’t even know the name of. Thing is, muttering for him is the equivalent of another person’s shout – Ryder isn’t known for being quiet. At this point, hell would freeze over before he learned to whisper.

It’d freeze over before he learned to think before speaking, too.

Because your little relationship, the one you’d told him to keep under wraps to avoid a media circus?

Yeah, well.

The entire garage knows about it.

Why, you ask? Because Ryder told them. Point, blank, period. When you finally agreed to go out with him, he decided to throw a mini-party in the garage to celebrate. To him, the date should be a national holiday. The first time you said ‘I love you’? He showed up to work with tears in his eyes, a billion screenshots of the same text message, and a concerning number of candid photos of you.

There’s no such thing as a secret when Ryder Lawson is involved.

Take last week, for example: you made the mistake of showing up to the garage in one of Ryder’s hoodies – something you’d swiped during a late night after your usual post-race debrief turned into a sleepover. The hoodie was huge on you, still smelled like motor oil and cologne, and featured an unfortunate tear in the armpit seam.

You figured no one would notice.

Wrong.

Before you could even step two feet inside, Ryder had pointed at you from across the garage and yelled “THAT’S MINE!” like a toddler defending his favorite toy. The whole team had turned to stare. Someone wolf-whistled. Someone else clapped. You’d wanted to curl up and disappear.

And yet here you are again, walking through the bay doors like you don’t already regret it.

The garage greets you with its signature aroma: scorched rubber, oil, sweat, and disappointment. Something hisses from the back – probably the espresso machine Ryder insisted on fixing with a zip tie. You step over a wrench, dodge a suspicious puddle, and catch a glimpse of the noodles splattered against the concrete. You don’t ask.

Ryder’s spotted immediately, crouched beside what used to be your car and covered in a layer of grime. Hair sticking up at odd angles, shirt repurposed as a grease rag. There’s a new smear of something on his temple. Could be sauce. Could be axle grease.

He hasn’t seen you yet – muttering to himself, absorbed in whatever chaos he’s engineering. Luckily, the other techs don’t seem to be around. You know they’d already be placing bets if they were.

Finally, Ryder’s brain cells fire long enough for him to register your presence. Eyes catching on your frame like you’re filtered sunlight after a storm – or, more accurately, like a very attractive distraction from whatever disaster he just made worse.

"Well, if it ain’t my baby!"

He stands, wipes his hands on his jeans, and you know you’ve got three seconds before he forces you into a bone-crushing hug.