Mature content: strong language, violence, sexual themes, and drug use. Reader discretion advised. Everything is fictional!!
Aaron
The shop feels wrong with him still standing there.
Too quiet. Too tight.
I keep my head down, hands busy on the Kawasaki Dad left me with, pretending I don't feel Tylor's presence burning a hole into my back. He stands near his bike, awkward, stiff, like he doesn't know where to put himself when he's not on a starting gate or swinging fists.
Good. Let him be uncomfortable.
Dad's phone rings, shrill against the low hum of the radio. He answers it with a grunt, pacing a few steps away, brows furrowing.
"Yeah... yeah, I can swing by later," he says, rubbing his temple. "No, I won't forget."
He hangs up, sighs, then looks at me.
"Gotta head out for a bit," he says. "Finish up here, then take a look at Tyler's suspension."
I freeze.
I don't look up. "You want me to—"
"You know what you're doing," he cuts in. Then, to Tylor, "He'll take care of it."
Dad grabs his keys and leaves before I can argue. The door slams shut behind him, the sound echoing way too loud.
Silence.
Thick. Loaded.
I let out a slow breath through my nose, jaw clenching as I wipe my hands on a rag and move toward Tylor's bike. I don't look at his face. Don't want to see the swelling around his eye. Don't want to remember how it looked when I caused it.
I crouch by the front suspension, inspecting the damage.
"Make sure you actually fix it," Tylor says suddenly.
I scoff under my breath. "I was planning on duct tape and prayers."
He snorts. "Figures."
I tighten my grip on the wrench. "If you don't like it, you can take it somewhere else."
"Only place in this shithole that knows what they're doing," he replies. Then, quieter, sharper, "Guess I'm stuck with you."
I glance up at him then. Just long enough to see his jaw clenched, his eye swollen almost shut, a dark bruise blooming under it. He looks rough. Tired. Pissed.
Still infuriating.
"Relax," I say coldly. "I'm better at fixing bikes than crashing into them."
His mouth curls. "Hope you're a better mechanic than racer."
That does it.
Something snaps. Not loud. Just clean.
I stand too fast, the room spinning for half a second from the bruises in my ribs. "Say that again."
He steps closer instead of backing off. Of course he does. "Hit a nerve?"
"Funny coming from someone who got suspended," I fire back, ignoring the fact I got suspended too.
"Funny coming from someone who started the fight," he shoots back.
I laugh, sharp and humorless. "You really wanna talk about starting things?"
My chest tightens. My knuckles throb. Every bruise from yesterday suddenly feels fresh again.
"You don't even deserve to be on the track," he mutters. "All you do is ride angry and drag everyone else down with you." Same words as my dad, hits me hard in the chest, I do not ride angry.
The wrench slips from my hand and clatters to the floor.
I don't remember deciding to move.
One second I'm standing there, breathing hard, the next I'm grabbing his shirt, fist twisted in the fabric, yanking him forward. Pain explodes in my ribs but I don't let go.
"Watch your mouth," I snarl, faces inches apart now. I can see the split in his lip. The swelling around his eye. He smells like oil and dirt and yesterday.
His hand comes up, gripping my wrist, not pushing me away. Holding me there.
"Or what?" he breathes.
We're both shaking. Both hurt. Both stupid enough to do this again.
For a split second, the shop feels like it's holding its breath.
And I know, with absolute certainty, that if someone doesn't walk in right now, we're about to ruin everything all over again.
Look like the gods heard me because..
A sudden voice cuts through the tension like a saw.
"Aaron! Seriously, are you even listening to me? I've been screaming—"
I freeze mid-twist of the wrench.
She's leaning against the doorframe, hips tilted like she owns the place—which, in a way, she does. Short shorts, cropped top, a smirk permanently glued to her face. Two years younger, but somehow she manages to look older, louder, and way too confident for someone who spends half her life stirring up trouble. Lexi, my fucking sister.
"You're supposed to take care of the groceries! Dad said—"
She stops, blinking at the sight of me and Tylor standing so close I swear the air could catch fire. Her mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.
"Oh. My. God." She tilts her head, hair swinging like a whip. "What the fuck are you two doing now? Seriously, another fight?"
I glance at her. She's... insufferable. The way she leans there, like she's here to watch the fireworks, makes my teeth grit. And of course, I know exactly what she's thinking. Her mouth has been in more trouble than a race bike, and she's proud of it. I can see it.
She's had every boy in the park—not that I care about gossip, but news travels fast. Including the part about Tylor. And of course she's going to make this about her. She've been with all the guys in this fucking neighborhood and I used to fight the guys she fucks, because they never treated her right and that pissed me off, she's my sister after all. That was before she asked me to stay out of her business after I beat the shit out of Tyler when Manson told me they were fucking, I swear in that day I saw red.
I ignore her, letting go of Tyler shirt. I clamp my jaw, focus on the bike in front of me. Keep my eyes on the carburetor. Keep my hands moving. Fix the damn bike.
She doesn't back down. She steps closer, letting her hand brush the bike frame, leaning forward with a smile that's way too smug. "You know, Tyler," she purrs, "you could, like... help me with something later. Maybe I could show you a better way to handle tension."
Tylor doesn't even flinch. Doesn't take his eyes off me. His jaw clenches, the purple under his eye darkening. He's too busy watching me, still mad, still sharp, still full of yesterday's fight.
She gasps dramatically. "What? No response? I'm talking to you, babe."
I keep twisting the wrench. Focus. Ignore. Fix.
She huffs. "Unbelievable. You two are so fucking boring when you're angry."
I don't care. I keep tightening bolts, adjusting, checking suspension angles. The familiar hum of the shop, the smell of oil and dirt, the stubborn way the bike refuses to cooperate—it's grounding.
She steps back, muttering under her breath, but doesn't leave. Keeps talking anyway, half to herself, half to Tylor, half to whatever part of the room wants to listen. "We should go out again, just the two of us, and maybe even have some fun." Lexi smirks.
I grit my teeth. Fun. That's one word for it. The way she's slept with every single guy in the park, and not even tried to hide it, is enough to make my stomach churn. Every gossip, every rumor, every fling—Lexi wears it like a badge. And she loves making sure everyone knows.
I ignore her. I don't want to look. Don't want to listen. Don't even want to acknowledge Tylor standing there, eye bruised, face tight, like he's one twitch away from exploding again. My back is to them. My hands are on the bolts. Focus. Fix. Tyler's bike.
I hear Tylor huff. A short, sharp sound that makes my blood pressure spike. His patience is running out. I know because I've been there. He doesn't like standing around. Doesn't like wasted time. And right now, he's wasting his.
"Alright," he says, voice low but carrying, cutting through Lexi's chatter. "Lexi. I've been here long enough."
She turns, smirk spreading. "Already leaving? But I was hoping you'd take me to—"
He cuts her off with a grin, dangerous and flirty, that somehow twists my stomach in knots. "Maybe next time, Lexi. Don't miss me too much."
Her laugh trails after him as he steps back toward the shop door. The way he tosses that look over his shoulder at me—sharp, deliberate, all about Aaron—makes my hands tighten around the wrench, knuckles white.
He storms out, muttering over his shoulder. "I'll pick the bike up later. Don't mess it up."
The door slams behind him Lexi roll her eyes before leaving too.
Good, I work better alone.
No Lexi, no Tyler, no Dad's sharp glances. Just the hum of fluorescent lights, the faint drip of oil somewhere in the back, the occasional squeak of a swinging bike frame.
I lean against the Kawasaki, wiping sweat and grease from my forehead. My hands ache, ribs throb, knuckles still raw from yesterday—and yet somehow, this feels like the only place I belong. Like the chaos outside these walls doesn't exist when I'm tuning a carburetor or checking suspension angles.
I hate Tyler. That's easy. Hate's clean. Sharp. Tidy. It makes sense. What doesn't make sense is how much space he takes up in my head when he's not even here. That glance. That stupid, infuriating smirk he threw Lexi. God, the way he can make her laugh, make her swoon, and I—me—can't even look without my stomach twisting.
I shake it off. Focus. Hands moving. Don't think about it.
Lexi. Ugh. The way she struts through life like she owns it, like every boy is just another notch, another point scored. I hate it. Hate her. Hate that I can't block her out completely. Hate the way my father tolerates it because, somehow, she's harmless chaos. Meanwhile, I'm trying to survive a season without getting suspended or seriously hurt.
I tighten the final bolt on the suspension and step back, looking at the bike. It's not perfect yet—but I'll fix it. Mine to fix, mine to control. Mine to keep from falling apart while the rest of the world—Tyler, Lexi, Dad, everyone—keeps pressing in.
I take a deep breath. Let the smell of oil and dirt fill me. Let the quiet wrap around my thoughts.
For now, it's just me. And the bike. And that's enough.