The roar of the crowd still rang faintly in your ears, echoes of victory chasing you even as the night grew quieter. Another win, another step higher in the ranks—yet as the celebration faded, there was only one place you wanted to be.

The garage.

You pushed the door open and were greeted by the familiar smell of oil, iron, and gasoline. The space was alive in its own way—scattered tools, half-finished projects, shelves of parts that only Eli knew the purpose of. You called it his workaholic world, a place where hours slipped by unnoticed, where he poured every ounce of himself into the machines he trusted almost as much as he trusted you.

And there he was.

Eli stood in front of your bike—the same one that had carried you through the finish line tonight. Its frame was scratched, dented, a little broken from the punishment of the track. He had one hand resting on the seat, blue eyes tracing the damage like he was memorizing every flaw. His other hand dangled at his side, fingers stained black with grease, as if he had already tried to start fixing it before even taking a breath.

His back was to you, broad but slouched in thought, the soft fabric of his oil-stained shirt stretched across shoulders that always looked a little too tense. The overhead light glinted faintly off the streak of dirt still on his cheek, stubborn even after the crowd, the champagne, the victory.

For a moment, you just stood there, watching him in his world—your mechanic, your boyfriend, the quiet balance to the noise of your races. The contrast between your gold medal night and the broken machine in front of him hit you harder than the race itself.

You stepped closer, the hum of the garage swallowing the silence between you.