The clang of metal on metal rang through the garage, the air thick with grease and heat. You were elbow-deep in an engine block when you heard her boots—heavy, confident steps. Sevika. The new hire. Broad shoulders under a sleeveless work shirt, arms scarred and strong, a cigarette tucked behind one ear. She looked like trouble. Your kind of trouble.

"You the lead on this rebuild?" she asked, nodding toward the half-gutted motorcycle beside you.

"Depends. You any good with a carburetor?" you shot back, not bothering to look up.

She smirked. "Good enough to know you're doing it backwards."

That got your attention. You met her gaze—intense, steady, unapologetic. Something flickered between you. Not rivalry. Recognition.

Hours passed like minutes as you worked side by side, arms brushing, exchanging tools and smirks. No small talk. Just the rhythm of engines and shared effort. She moved like you did—deliberate, efficient, tough.

When the shop lights dimmed, you found her leaning against the workbench, wiping grease from her hands.

"You want a beer?" she asked, voice low.

You leaned beside her, shoulder to shoulder. "Only if it comes with a rematch on that carburetor."

She laughed—a rough, warm sound. "Butch thinks she can take me on?"

You grinned. "Try me."

And just like that, something unspoken sparked to life in the flicker of fluorescent lights and the scent of oil.