Mature content: strong language, violence, sexual themes, and drug use. Reader discretion advised. Everything is fictional!!
Aaron
I don't sleep.
Not really.
I lay there. Staring at the ceiling. Watching shadows move across cracked plaster like they've got somewhere to be. Like they're not stuck.
Every time I close my eyes, it's the same thing.
Tyler.
On the couch.
Looking at me like that.
My jaw tightens.
I turn onto my side. Then my back. Then my other side. The sheets are twisted around my legs like they're trying to trap me here.
It's still dark when I give up.
I sit up, elbows on my knees, dragging both hands down my face hard enough to hurt.
"Get a grip," I mutter.
Because this is ridiculous.
It was one night. One stupid party. One drunk conversation that didn't mean anything.
So why does it feel like it did?
I stand up before I can think too much about it, pacing the small space of my room. My body's exhausted, but my brain won't shut up.
The bathroom.
The girl.
Nothing.
And then—
Tyler again.
Always Tyler.
I grab the edge of my dresser and squeeze until my knuckles go white. How many hours had passed?
"No," I say out loud this time. "No. That's not—"
The door slams open.
"Get up."
Dad's voice cuts through everything like a blade.
And that means it's already morning.
I flinch before I can stop myself.
He stands in the doorway, already dressed, already irritated, like I've personally offended him by existing.
"Shop's not gonna run itself," he adds, looking me over. "You look like shit."
"Didn't sleep," I mutter.
"Well you should've had." He turns away. "Five minutes."
The door slams again.
And just like that, whatever the hell was going on in my head gets shoved to the side. Packed away. Locked up.
Because this? This is real.
I pull on clothes fast, hands moving on autopilot.
No time to think.
No room to feel.
Good.
⸻
The kitchen smells like stale coffee and something burnt.
Lexi's already there, leaning against the counter, scrolling through her phone like she hasn't slept either.
She glances up when I walk in.
"Wow," she says. "You look worse than usual."
"Thanks," I grab a mug, pour whatever's left in the pot. "You're glowing."
She snorts. "I always do."
Silence settles between us for a second. Not awkward. Just... familiar.
Then she tilts her head slightly.
"You were at that party last night."
It's not a question.
I take a sip. It tastes like regret.
"Yeah."
She watches me longer than I like. "He was there too."
Of course she goes straight for that.
I set the mug down harder than necessary. "Don't start."
"I'm not starting anything," she says, holding her hands up slightly. "Just saying." She pauses, then, "My friends saw you with a girl."
"You're friends should get a life."
She smirks a little. "But you didn't left with her, you left with him. You dragged him out, didn't you?"
I don't answer.
Which is answer enough.
Her expression shifts. Just a little. Something softer under the usual attitude.
"That's... surprisingly decent of you," she says.
"I didn't do it for him."
"Sure," she says, way too easily.
I grab my jacket. "I've got work."
"Yeah," she calls after me. "Try not to murder anyone today."
"No promises."
⸻
The shop smells like oil and metal and something solid. Something that makes sense.
I need that.
Dad's already under a bike when I walk in.
"You're late, I've called you ages ago." he says without looking at me.
"I'm on time."
"You're not early."
I don't bother arguing. It's pointless.
I grab tools, get to work on the engine in front of me. Hands moving, mind focusing. This is easy. This is controlled.
For a while, it works.
Then—
"You hear about next weekend?"
Dad's voice cuts in again.
I don't look up. "Yeah."
"First race of the season." He slides out from under the bike, wiping his hands. "You better not screw it up this time."
There it is.
I tighten a bolt harder than necessary.
"I won't."
"You said that last season."
My jaw locks.
"That was different."
"Was it?" He raises an eyebrow. "Looked the same to me. You lost."
Heat flares in my chest, sharp and immediate.
"I didn't lose," I snap. "I got suspended."
"Because you couldn't control yourself," he shoots back. "Same result."
Silence drops heavy between us.
I force myself to breathe. Slow. Controlled.
"I'll win this season," I say, quieter now. "I will."
He studies me for a second.
Then nods once. "You better."
And just like that, he's done with the conversation.
Like he didn't just shove a knife into my ribs and twist.
I go back to work.
Because what else is there?
⸻
A couple hours pass.
Enough for my hands to get dirty. Enough for my head to almost quiet down again.
Then the door creaks open.
"Wow," Mason's voice cuts through the noise. "This place still smells like bad moods and engine oil."
I don't look up, but I feel some of the tension ease anyway.
"Thought you loved it," I say.
"I love you," he shoots back. "This place? Questionable."
I huff a quiet laugh.
He grabs a rag, leans against the workbench like he belongs here. Which he kind of does.
"Your dad in a mood?" he asks.
"When isn't he."
"Fair." He glances at me. "You didn't sleep."
"Detective work's really paying off for you."
He smirks. "I'm serious."
I shrug. "Couldn't."
He watches me for a second longer than usual.
Then, casually, "Party hangover or something else?"
My grip tightens on the wrench.
"Both?"
He sighs.
"It's Tyler, isn't it."
I slam the tool down.
"For fuck's sake, Mason—"
"What?" he says, hands up, not backing off at all. "You've been weird about him for weeks. Last night just made it worse."
"I'm not weird," I snap.
"You dragged him home," Mason counters. "Dragged. Didn't hook up with the girl. You wanna explain that?"
I freeze.
Just for a second.
Too long.
Mason sees it.
"Yeah," he says quietly. "That's what I thought."
Something sharp twists in my chest.
"Shut up," I mutter.
"I'm not judging you," he adds, softer now. "I'm just saying... maybe figure out why you care."
"I don't care."
"Right."
I shove past him, grabbing another part I don't need.
"I don't," I repeat, harsher this time. "He's just— he's—"
"Important?" Mason offers.
I laugh. Sharp. Wrong.
"He's a problem."
Mason tilts his head. "Same thing sometimes."
I glare at him.
He just shrugs, like he didn't just drop that and wreck my entire morning.
Silence stretches again, heavier this time.
Engines. Tools. Breathing.
And underneath it all—
That same thought I've been trying to outrun since last night.
Tyler on the couch. Looking at me like that.
I tighten my grip on the wrench until it hurts.
Because I don't have time for this. I don't have space for this.
The race is next weekend.
That's what matters.
That's what I focus on.
That's what I hold onto.
Even if, for the first time, it doesn't feel like the only thing on the line anymore.
By the time Mason leaves, I somehow feel worse than before he showed up, which is impressive considering I already felt like I hadn't slept in three days and had a migraine building behind my eyes.
"Think about it," he'd said, like he wasn't casually dropping something into my brain that I absolutely did not want to deal with.
So I don't.
I don't think about it, I don't touch it, I don't even let the thought fully form, because the second I do, I already know it's going to spiral into something I can't control.
Instead, I work.
I throw myself into it, hands moving nonstop, tools clanking against metal, engines half-torn apart and put back together again like repetition alone can fix whatever the hell is wrong with me. Grease sinks into my skin, the smell of oil clings to everything, and for a while it almost works, almost drowns everything else out.
Almost.
But it's still there, sitting in the back of my head, waiting.
By mid-afternoon, the shop starts to feel too small, like the walls are closing in inch by inch, the air thick and heavy in a way that makes it harder to breathe.
I wipe my hands on a rag, already knowing I'm done here for now, and grab my keys without overthinking it.
"Where are you going?" Dad asks from somewhere behind me, his voice carrying that usual edge like he's expecting me to screw something up just by stepping outside.
"The track," I answer shortly, not bothering to look at him.
He grunts, unimpressed. "Don't break anything."
I don't respond, because if I do, it'll turn into something else, and I don't have the energy for that today.
⸻
The ride there is faster than it should be, the kind of fast that borders on reckless, but I don't slow down.
The wind cuts against my skin, sharp and cold, the engine vibrating beneath me like it understands exactly what I need, like it knows I'm trying to burn something out of my system that won't go quietly.
By the time the track comes into view, I feel a little more grounded, a little less like I'm about to crawl out of my own skin.
At first glance, it looks empty.
Good.
That's exactly what I need.
No people. No noise. No—
There's a truck parked near the fence.
My stomach drops instantly, like my body knows before my brain even catches up.
I slow down as I pull in, the engine lowering to a rough hum, my eyes already locked on the familiar bike leaning against the truck.
I know that bike.
Of course I do.
Tyler.
Because apparently, I don't get a break.
For a second, I seriously consider turning around, getting back on the road, pretending I was never here in the first place.
I should.
That would be the smart move.
Instead, I kill the engine.
Because I clearly don't make smart decisions anymore.
⸻
He's already riding.
Of course he is.
I lean against my bike, helmet hanging loosely from my hand as I watch him circle the track, telling myself I'll just wait him out, that I'll give him time to leave so I can have the place to myself again.
That plan lasts about five seconds.
Because watching him ride is... distracting.
He moves the same way he always has, fast and aggressive, pushing every turn harder than necessary, every jump just a little higher, like he's constantly daring himself to go further, to risk more.
It's reckless.
It's stupid.
It's—
Good.
Annoyingly good.
He clears a jump clean, landing smooth and controlled before immediately accelerating again, not even hesitating, not even second-guessing himself.
I tighten my grip on my helmet without realizing it.
Show-off.
Like he can feel me watching him, like he always somehow knows exactly when my attention is on him, he slows down, circles back, and then rides straight toward me.
He stops just a few feet away, engine still running, dust settling around him in slow, lazy clouds.
For a moment, neither of us says anything.
We just look at each other.
Even with the helmet on, I can feel it, that same tension from last night snapping right back into place like it never left.
God, I hate this.
He pulls his helmet off, running a hand through his hair, breathing a little heavier from the ride but still looking way too relaxed about it.
"You stalking me now?" he calls out, voice carrying easily in the open space.
There it is.
Familiar.
Simple.
I grab onto it immediately.
"Don't flatter yourself," I shoot back, pushing off my bike.
I don't bother arguing, just shove my helmet on and swing onto my bike, needing something to do before this turns into... whatever it's trying to turn into.
"Try not to crash this time," he says, casual but pointed.
I glance at him, irritation flaring instantly. "Try not to get drunk before noon."
His smirk sharpens, like that's exactly the reaction he wanted. "Only if you promise not to run off mid-hookup again."
My chest tightens before I can stop it.
That again.
I rev the engine harder than necessary, using the noise to cover the reaction. "Get on the fucking track or shut up."
He grins like he's just won something.
"Race you."
I don't even think about it.
"Yeah."
Because apparently I'm determined to make today worse.
We line up side by side without another word, the tension between us thick enough to choke on.
There's no signal, no countdown, no one telling us when to go.
Just us.
The second he shifts slightly, I do too—
And then we're moving.
Everything else disappears.
The world narrows down to the roar of the engine, the feel of the bike beneath me, the dirt flying up behind my tires as I push forward as hard as I can.
I take the lead by a fraction, leaning into the first turn, muscles working on autopilot, every movement precise and controlled.
He's right there.
I can feel it.
Too close.
Always too close.
We hit the first jump, and I clear it cleanly, landing steady and fast, but he lands almost beside me, close enough that I can hear his engine over mine, close enough that I know he's not backing off.
He never does.
We push harder.
Faster.
Every turn tighter, every jump riskier, like we're trying to outdo each other with every second that passes.
It's the same as always.
Except it isn't.
Because every time I glance to the side, he's there, not just as someone I need to beat, not just as competition—
But something else.
Something that throws me off just enough to be dangerous.
I push harder to create distance, forcing myself to focus, to ignore it, to shut it down.
Just the race.
Just the track.
Nothing else.
I hit the next jump—
And land slightly off.
It's small. Barely noticeable.
But it's enough.
My back tire skids just enough to break my rhythm, and in that split second, he takes the lead.
"Shit," I mutter, correcting quickly and pushing forward again.
I don't let up.
Neither does he.
We're too close on the next turn, shoulders brushing for the briefest moment, and the contact sends something sharp and electric through me that has nothing to do with the race.
My breath stutters.
He notices.
I know he does.
Because he glances at me—
And smirks.
Asshole.
By the time we finally stop, I've lost count of how many times we've raced.
The sun's lower, my muscles are screaming, and sweat clings to my skin as I pull my helmet off, dragging in a deep breath.
Tyler's a few feet away, bent slightly forward, hands braced on his knees as he catches his breath.
For a moment, there's nothing.
Just the sound of engines cooling, the wind moving through the track, the quiet settling back in around us.
Then—
"You didn't leave her because of me, did you?"
His voice cuts through everything, low but steady.
I freeze.
Slowly, I look at him. "What?"
He straightens, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, his gaze locking onto mine like he's not planning to let this go.
"At the party," he says. "You didn't leave that girl because of me... right?"
My chest tightens, irritation rising fast to cover everything else.
"That's what you're stuck on?" I scoff. "Seriously?"
And then as if he realized something, "You did, though."
"I didn't."
"Yeah," he says, stepping closer, his voice quieter now but somehow heavier. "You did."
I let out a sharp laugh, shaking my head. "You're not that important, Tyler."
Something flickers across his face, quick enough that I almost miss it.
"Good," he says.
But he doesn't move back.
And neither do I.
The space between us feels too small, charged in a way that makes it hard to think straight.
"You should focus on the race," I say, because I need to say something, anything that puts this back where it belongs. "Instead of making shit up."
"I am focused, but not on the race." he replies, his eyes not leaving mine. "That's the problem."
My pulse picks up.
"What the hell does that mean?"
He exhales slowly, like he's choosing his words carefully, like this actually matters.
"It means you weren't thinking about her."
My breath catches.
"And you definitely weren't thinking about the race." I say in a defensive tone.
He steps closer again, closing what little space is left between us.
"You wanna tell me what you were thinking about?"
Everything in me goes tight.
This is a mistake.
I should walk away.
I don't.
Instead, I hold his gaze, jaw clenched, forcing myself not to react.
"Don't ask me something you don't want to hear the answer."
His lips twitch slightly. "Who says I don't?"
My heart is pounding now, loud and impossible to ignore.
For a second—just one—I think he's going to do it.
Actually close the distance.
My eyes flick down to his mouth before I can stop myself.
And that's it.
That's the mistake.
When I look back up, he's watching me like he saw it, like he knows exactly what just happened.
Like he understands it better than I do.
That's what breaks it.
I step back sharply, like the moment burned me.
What the fuck was I thinking?!
"This is stupid," I mutter, grabbing my helmet. "I'm done."
Coward.
The word hits hard and immediate, but I shove it down just as fast.
I don't look at him again as I get on the bike and start the engine.
Behind me, I hear him sighing quietly.
"Yeah," he says. "You always are."
I hesitate for a fraction of a second.
Then I leave.
Because if I stay—
I won't.
Fuck this...