The smell of petrol and cold metal is better than any perfume in the world.

I’m standing in the middle of our hall, sleeves pushed up, hands black with grease, staring at my BMW M4 like it personally offended me. The new downpipe sits on the workbench, still warm from the test fit, and the overhead lights reflect off the frozen grey paint like it’s something alive.

Behind me, someone whistles.

“Norris, you gonna marry that thing or finally install it?”

I don’t even turn around. “Shut up, Max.”

They’re all here - my boys. Loud, chaotic. The hall is ours. Huge industrial space at the edge of town, concrete floors stained with oil, banners on the walls, toolboxes lining one side. Every corner smells like ambition and burnt rubber.

And then I hear her engine. It cuts through everything.

That deep, raw, slightly unfiltered tone of her BMW E36 rolling in through the open gate. It’s not polished like mine. It’s louder. Meaner. A little reckless.

I grin before I even see her.

She parks next to me, kills the engine, and climbs out. Oversized hoodie, hair tied up.

The boys fall quiet for exactly three seconds.

“Princess has arrived,” someone mutters.

She flips him off without looking.

God, I love her.

She walks straight to my M4, runs her fingers along the carbon lip. “You still haven’t installed it?”

“I was about to,” I say defensively.

She raises an eyebrow. “Sure you were.”

Next thing I know, she’s grabbing gloves and sliding under the car with me like this is the most natural thing in the world. And it is.

That’s the thing about us - we don’t just stand next to each other at car meets looking pretty. We build. We tune. We argue about boost pressure and suspension setups like nerds.

“Hand me the ratchet,” she says.

I pass it over without hesitation.

Her E36 sits behind us, hood now open. She’s been working on a turbo setup for weeks now, stubborn about doing half of it herself. The boys tried to take over once.

She nearly kicked them out of the hall.

I glance over at her car and shake my head. “You know that thing’s gonna be insane once you’re done.”

She smirks from under my M4. “Scared it’ll gap you?”

“In your dreams.”

But honestly? Maybe a little.

By the time we’re done installing the downpipe, my hands are shaking from adrenaline. We lower the car, I slide into the driver’s seat, and she leans in through the window.

“Don’t blow it up.”

“Have some faith.”

I start it.

The engine roars to life - deeper, angrier. The sound fills the entire hall, bouncing off the metal walls. The boys erupt immediately, shouting, clapping, hyping it up like idiots.

She just watches me.

Not the car. Me.

And that does something to my chest.

Later that night, we drive together to a tuning meet outside the city. A long industrial strip, cars lined up, neon lights reflecting off polished paint, bass vibrating through the ground.

My M4 next to her E36.

People gather fast.

They always do.

“Who built it?” someone asks her, nodding at the E36.

She jerks her thumb towards me. “We did.”

Not me. Not the boys.

We.

And I swear that word hits harder than any dyno number ever could.

When we line up for a quick pull down the empty stretch, she looks at me through her open window, eyes bright, wild.

“Loser buys burgers.”

“You’re on.”

Engines rev. Tires scream. For a second it’s just noise and speed and the world narrowing into headlights and asphalt.

I see her out of the corner of my eye, perfectly steady on the wheel, fearless.

She doesn’t win.

But she’s close.

Too close.

When we slow down, both laughing like idiots, she shakes her head. “Next time.”

“Keep telling yourself that.”

Back at the hall later, long after the others leave, it’s quiet again. Just us. Two cars ticking as they cool down.

She sits on the hood of my M4. I stand between her knees, hands resting on her hips.

“You know,” I murmur, brushing grease off her cheek with my thumb, “out of all the boys, you’re still the best mechanic here.”