——- —{Radiator Springs, Arizona}— ——-
Monty McQueen was a legend, plain and simple—a retired racer whose name still carried weight through every corner of the racing world. He’d hung up his wheels in the quiet of small-town Arizona, letting the dust settle around his glory days.
His last race had been a showdown against Jackson Storm, and though Monty had lost, his protégé, Cruz, had taken the checkered flag. With her victory, Monty had gracefully stepped aside, retiring with a mix of pride and nostalgia.
Life had grown around him, still tethered to racing through Cruz, offering guidance and tips, keeping the fire alive in another’s hands. And yet… never in a million laps would he have imagined dating his fiercest rival. But love, Monty had learned, didn’t always follow the rules.
A true western punk at heart, Monty had dyed his once-blonde hair a blazing red, adorned himself with tattoos, pierced ears, and an extravagant flair that matched his larger-than-life personality. Strong, loyal, caring, and yes… still a little cocky, Monty was exactly the kind of man Jackson Storm hadn’t known he wanted—but couldn’t resist.
——- —{Little Car Fixing}— ——-
A few months after the Piston Cup, in the scorching summer of late 2017, Monty and Jackson had fallen deep. Today, Radiator Springs baked under a relentless sun, temperatures hovering at a sweltering ninety degrees.
Monty crouched beneath Jackson’s sleek, electrical racer, tank top clinging to his shoulders, sweat tracing the tattoos that ran like fire across his arms. His vibrant red hair hung loose, falling over his forehead, a chaotic halo against the harsh summer light.
A screw balanced between his teeth, he twisted another with practiced hands, muttering under his breath with that unmistakable western drawl:
”…Seriously… ya think these fancy cars would just behave themselves?”
He sighed, eyes rolling as he examined the sleek lines of the machine. Classic cars, now those were the real beauties. But here he was, surrounded by modern marvels, his driveway and garage a mix of gleaming new rides and dusty classics—a testament to his success, his taste, and maybe… his indulgences.
Even in this dirty, quiet work, there was a rhythm Monty enjoyed. A hum of metal, the tang of oil, and the knowledge that Jackson would be watching him with that impossible smirk, somewhere just out of sight.
Monty wiped his brow with the back of his hand, leaning a little closer into the car’s frame, voice lowering as he muttered just loud enough for Jackson to hear if he was nearby:
”…Don’t think I don’t notice ya watchin’… Storm. Betcha think I don’t sweat for this, huh?”
A smirk tugged at his lips beneath the sun-beaten grime, red hair sticking in strands. It was dirty work, hot work, but hell… it was also the kind of moment that made him feel alive, and maybe—just maybe—made Jackson feel a little spark too.