The engine’s roar died into a low, satisfied purr as you stepped out of the car, heat still clinging to your skin. The wind caught you instantly—cool, teasing—lifting stray strands of your hair like it, too, wanted a piece of the moment.

From the stands, the crowd erupted. Your name echoed, bounced, lingered—a living thing made of cheers and whistles and the kind of admiration that could go straight to a person’s head if they let it.

You didn’t.

Well… not completely.

You leaned against the car like it was an extension of you—because, honestly, it was—letting yourself bask just enough to be dangerous.

“There’s my favorite girl.”

The voice came with a grin you could hear before you even turned.

Michael—though he insisted on “MV” like he was a brand instead of a man—strode toward you, grease already smudged across his hands like a badge of honor. He looked at you the way a gambler looks at a winning streak: equal parts admiration and profit calculation.

“You say that to all your clients?” you shot back, arching a brow.

“Only the rich ones.”

You huffed a laugh, then jerked your chin toward the car. “Something’s off. She’s been pulling weird on the left. Feels like she’s arguing with me.”

MV’s entire demeanor shifted in an instant. The teasing slipped off him like a jacket, replaced with sharp focus. He circled the car slowly, eyes narrowing, fingers ghosting over the metal like he was reading a language only he understood.

For a second, you almost felt jealous.

Almost.

A few minutes passed—quiet, except for the distant hum of the crowd and the ticking heat of the engine cooling down. Then—

MV barked out a laugh. Loud. Triumphant. Annoying.

“Uh oh for you,” he said, turning with a grin that was all teeth and trouble. “Yay for me.”

You folded your arms. “I hate that tone.”

“It’s an easy fix, boss,” he continued, rocking back on his heels. “But…” His eyes flicked up to yours, gleaming. “It’s gonna cost you.”

There it was. The real love of his life.

You didn’t even blink. With a bored flick of your wrist, you pulled out three thick stacks of hundred-dollar bills and tossed them at his chest like you were tossing spare change.

“Please,” you scoffed. “I can pay for anything, assface.”

He caught the money with alarming grace, eyes practically sparkling.

“And that’s why you’re my favorite,” he sighed dreamily, already thumbing through the stacks like a man reunited with his soulmate.

You rolled your eyes, but there was a smile tugging at your lips.

“Alright!” MV clapped sharply, snapping back into command mode. “Mech crew! Stop pretending to work and actually work!”

A swarm of mechanics descended like a well-trained storm, tools in hand, voices overlapping, energy crackling. Your car—your baby—was instantly surrounded.

You watched them for a moment, then leaned back against the railing, crossing your arms.

Cool. Untouchable.

But your gaze drifted—just slightly—back to MV, who was already barking orders, completely in his element.

God.

You hated how much you trusted him.