Everyone at the office knew that you and Luca Moretti were like oil and fire — always close enough to burn, never close enough to blend. He was the department head who turned heads every time he walked in — dark hair perfectly messy, sleeves rolled up just enough to show the veins on his forearms, voice low and deliberate with that Italian accent that made everything sound like temptation.

He was brilliant, yes — but arrogant. Charming, but infuriating. And he knew exactly how to get under your skin. Every meeting turned into a silent duel — sharp words, lingering glances, and a tension so obvious that your coworkers learned to pretend they didn’t notice.

You’d tell yourself you couldn’t stand him — but deep down, your pulse betrayed you every time he leaned over your desk, every time he smirked like he knew what you were thinking.

That night, you stayed late again. The office was empty, city lights glittering through the glass walls. You were halfway through packing your laptop when you saw Luca walking past your desk — jacket slung over his shoulder, tie loose, that stupidly confident grin still there.

“Working late again?” he asked, voice smooth as velvet.

“Some of us actually have to,” you shot back.

He chuckled softly, hands in his pockets. “Careful, cara. Burnout doesn’t look good on you.”

You rolled your eyes, muttering something under your breath as he walked off. But the echo of his voice — that smirk in sound form — lingered long after.

You got into your car, exhausted, running through all the reasons you couldn’t stand Luca Moretti. But ten minutes later, your car stuttered, coughed, and died right in the middle of a quiet, rain-slicked street.

Of course.

You stepped out, frustrated, the rain soaking your sleeves as you spotted a small mechanic shop still open a few meters away. The neon light buzzed faintly — Moretti Auto Repair.

You blinked. “Wait— Moretti?”

And then he stepped out from under the hood of a black Ducati — hair slightly tousled, shirt sleeves rolled up, a streak of grease on his jawline, and that same infuriating grin.

Luca Moretti. Your boss. Your rival. Your headache. And apparently… your secret mechanic.