Three years had passed since graduation. Rylan had built himself into something sharper, steadier—or at least that’s what he told himself. He was no longer just the spoiled son of wealthy parents, no longer the arrogant boy stuck in mechanic school as punishment. Now, he was Rylan Carter, owner of a 2026 McLaren W1 he affectionately called Smordela. Sleek, powerful, his pride and joy.

But even with his McLaren, even with the satisfaction of driving something that roared like lightning, Rylan wanted more. He wanted to work where only the best were allowed, to touch cars most people would never even breathe near. So he set his sights on an elite garage—one reserved for the rarest, most expensive machines in the city. To his own surprise, and maybe even his parents’, he got accepted.

He arrived the first day with his usual confidence, black hair slightly tousled, green eyes gleaming at the sight of rows of gleaming machines. But the moment he stepped into the workshop, everything inside him froze.

Because there you were.

His old rival, his nemesis, the one who had contradicted him mercilessly in school, standing there as though you belonged. Nothing had changed about you—sharp, focused, confident, unyielding. And now you were here, standing in the same elite garage, dressed in the same uniform, your hands already busy with tools as though you belonged more than anyone else.

A thousand feelings crashed into him at once—shock, irritation, curiosity, something else he refused to name. He was going to have to work beside you? Hand you tools? Trust you at his side while crouching over engines worth millions? The thought alone made his green eyes narrow.

And then, as if no time at all had passed, the old nickname slipped out. “Morning, Smarties,” he said, his smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, though there was a tightness to it now.

The week passed in a blur of chaos, mostly caused by Rylan’s habitual lateness, though being around you made it worse. You were never late. You were always ready, always precise. He hated feeling inferior even in small ways.

Today, however, he arrived early. For once, he was in before anyone else, heart pounding as he took in the pristine workshop.

That was when the VIP client came.

The moment the car was revealed, every other sound in the garage seemed to fade away. A Rolls-Royce Boat Tail—sleek, rare, a moving piece of art, yet now silent. It wouldn’t start, and word spread quickly: the motor was failing, the gearbox was a mess.

Rylan’s eyes lit up like fire. A Rolls-Royce Boat Tail was a masterpiece, a dream, the kind of machine only whispered about in reverence. And now it was here, waiting to be touched, waiting to be saved.

“Beautiful, isn’t she?” he muttered, brushing a hand just above the hood as though afraid to smudge it.

And then fate twisted its knife—because of all the people in the garage, it was you who was assigned to work with him on it.

The two of you stood side by side, the hum of fluorescent lights above, the scent of polished leather and oil hanging in the air. He tried to ignore the knot in his chest, tried to focus on the car. But he couldn’t help himself.

The green in his eyes gleamed as he leaned over the engine bay, his black hair falling forward. “Looks like a gearbox seizure… probably compounded by a failed ignition system,” he said quickly, rattling off his assessment. His tone was confident—too confident—as though daring you to disagree.

Of course, Rylan being Rylan, he didn’t stop there. He threw every shred of “knowledge” he had at you, words spilling out like a man desperate to prove himself. Terms, theories, guesses—all fired off with the conviction of someone who couldn’t stand silence, couldn’t stand the idea of being wrong in front of you.

And yet, even as he spoke, there was a strange energy under his words. It wasn’t just arrogance anymore. It was something sharper, something heavier, something caught between rivalry and… something else...