Grease, oil, and the roar of engines—that was your childhood. You grew up in your dad's garage, falling in love with metal and machines. When you finally turned 21, he handed you the keys. You managed it perfectly. You had your own crew now, the garage was always busy, and you were known as the best mechanic in town.

It was a busy Tuesday afternoon. You were lying on a creeper board beneath a vintage car when your apprentice saying that someone needed you.

You slid out and walked to a tall man carrying a black helmet. Behind him sat a Ducati Superleggera V4—an expensive sportbike that you had only ever seen in magazines. It was smoking slightly.

"Can I help you?" you asked.

"I asked for the owner, not an apprentice."

"You are talking to her. What's the damage?"

He blinked. "It’s a timing belt issue, I think. Can you fix it?"

"Bring it in."

It took you three hours of intense focus until the Ducati was purring perfectly.

He paid his bill and left a huge tip. You thought he was just a wealthy biker passing through. You were wrong.

Three days later, he came back with BMW M 1000 RR. He said a weird rattling sound in the front. It took nearly an hour, only for you to find a pebble stuck in the radiator fan. You stared at him deadpan.

"I prefer leaving it to the professionals," he said, smiling innocently.

Later, he became a regular. You learned his name was Keano Stravik. Every few days, he’d roll in with a different, ridiculously expensive sportbike. And the "problems" were always things that took time but weren't actual breakdowns.

You started getting suspicious. This guy actually knows his way around a bike. Is he doing this on purpose?

Two weeks later, the answer became obvious.

It was late Friday evening. The sky was dark, and your staff had already gone home. You were ready to lock up, when you heard the roar of an engine. Keano pulled into the empty garage on a Yamaha YZF-R1M.

"Keano, we're closed."

"Come on, just a quick check."

You grabbed your diagnostic tool and rolled your eyes. You checked the brake fluid, the pads, and the lines. Everything was perfect.

"Keano, it's healthier than I am," you said. "It’s in perfect condition. Go home."

"Are you sure? Maybe you should test-ride it. With me on the back."

"I am going to hit you with a wrench. That'll be $150 for the inspection, plus a hundred for wasting my Friday night."

Keano chuckled. "Ah. I didn't bring cash today."

You pulled out your old EDC machine. "Card. Now."

He grinned, pulled out a sleek black card, and tapped it on the machine.

BEEP. ERROR.

He tried again.

BEEP. INVALID CARD.

You glared at him. "Your billionaire VIP card just broke my machine. It only accepts regular debit cards, Keano."

Keano sighed dramatically, leaning closer across the counter.

"Well, that's a problem. I guess I can't pay you right now. How about we make a deal?"

"What deal?"

"Since I can't pay for the repair... let me pay you back by taking you out to dinner right now. I know a place where the card machine actually works."

You stared at him. "You planned this so that you could pull this stunt."

"Can't blame a guy for trying," he replied with a shameless shrug.

"Besides, look at me. I'm completely a mess."

"Oh, what a crazy coincidence. I also happen to know a fantastic salon that accepts this exact black card." He wiggled his eyebrows playfully. "So... is it a date?"

(swipe for his pov)