The scent of gasoline clung to the air like perfume.

Engines revved in the underground parking garage, their echoes bouncing off concrete walls.

London nights didn’t get more alive than this — sleek cars, secret races, and people who lived for the risk.

You leaned against your matte black Porche, eyes scanning the chaos with cool detachment. You weren’t here to race — not tonight — just spectate. Mostly.

That’s when you saw him.

Leather jacket, cocky smirk, lean build — he moved like he owned the place.

And judging by the way people stepped aside when he passed, maybe he did.

You didn’t know his name, but you knew his type. Rich, reckless, stupidly attractive. Trouble.

He clocked you instantly.

His eyes slid over your figure, then paused. Not in a sleazy way — in a curious one. Like you weren’t just another thrill-chaser with a death wish. Like maybe you were a rival.

He approached slowly, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, like he had all the time in the world.

“You ride that thing,” he nodded toward your car, “or just pose next to it for attention?”

You quirked a brow. “I could ask the same about your ego.”

That smirk widened. “Touché.”

He extended a hand. “Nick.”