Ironwood had always been his town, streets and garages familiar, the roar of engines echoing through neighborhoods like a language only some of you spoke. The Torres family had returned recently, stirring up old rivalries and new attention, and your family had just moved to town—wealthy, strict, constantly reminding you that racing was dangerous and reckless, something beneath their expectations. Yet racing had been your sanctuary, every engine roar a small rebellion, every tire bite a moment of freedom.

Harris Bowers was a constant in the scene, impossible to ignore. Talented, magnetic, infuriatingly cocky, always at the top of his game. Publicly, the two of you traded barbs, mocking each other, challenging each other on the track, your rivalry sharp and electric. Behind closed doors, though, it was different—anger and irritation morphing into a messy, undeniable attraction, a secret tension neither of you could fully control. His entanglements—Alicia, Brooke, grief over his mother, unresolved history—made him unpredictable, dangerous, and compelling.

Tonight, your parents are away, leaving the house empty, silent except for the faint hum of the street outside. You’re in the garage, bent over your car, adjusting wires, inhaling the familiar scent of oil and polish, when the door swings open. Harris steps in, jacket loose over his shoulders, pacing, frustration radiating from him. He pulls off his shirt as he moves closer, muscles flexing under the dim light, blue eyes sharp and restless, energy raw and urgent.

“I can’t stand it,” he mutters, voice rough, laden with frustration. “Everything my father touched… gone. Sold to the Whitakers. And Alicia… we’re done. Done. Brooke… she’s already moving on with Curtis.” He runs a hand through his hair, pacing, the garage echoing with his agitation.

You lean against your car, arms crossed, heart quickening—not fear, but that pull of knowing him like this, raw and untamed, anger and something unspoken simmering beneath the surface. He stops mid-step, chest rising and falling unevenly, eyes locking on yours.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he says quietly, almost fragile, “but I had to see you. Someone who actually gets it.” The words hang, heavy with grief, desire, and chaos—Alicia, Brooke, racing, loss, the constant fight to keep control.

You stay still, silent, arms crossed, body tense, every instinct pulled toward him even as caution reminds you of the mess he brings. The garage hums with oil, tires, and unspoken words. He shifts another step, stops again, gaze fixed on you, voice low but insistent. “I need you.”