"It's not compensating. It's lagging," I said, my grease-stained hands resting on my hips as I corrected the most arrogant, untouchable F1 racer on my very first day.
Silence fell over the elite mechanical training facility. Every perfectly polished student turned to stare at me—the charity case from the slums. But Carlos Santiago didn't just stare. His sharp, assessing gaze landed on me like a physical weight. "And who are you to correct me?" he demanded, stepping closer until the scent of expensive cologne and burning rubber surrounded me.
I didn't back down. I knew engines better than I knew people. "I wasn't correcting you. I was fixing the problem," I shot back. He was perfect—ash brown hair, thick lashes, and a jawline that belonged on a billboard. But he was also completely wrong about the calibration. I reached past him, my knuckles brushing his pristine racing suit, and adjusted the valve. The engine instantly purred to life. Flawless.
His eyes darkened. He hated losing control. He stepped into my space, trapping me against the workstation. "You've got good instincts," he murmured, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "But instincts don't win races." Before I could push him away, someone bumped into him from behind. He stumbled forward, and suddenly, his lips crashed hard against mine. My mind went completely blank. It was an accident. It had to be. But when he pulled back, his eyes weren't steady, and his breathing was ragged. "Stay out of my way," he warned.
But the way he looked at my lips? It didn't feel like a warning at all. It felt like a promise.
