MECHANIC \ VI

The smell of grease and iron was Vi’s second skin, stitched into every scar and every tattoo running across her arms. She wasn’t the kind of woman who belonged in glittering penthouses or at champagne dinners. Her world was the shop—loud, dirty, alive with engines. And nothing ever surprised her anymore. Not clients, not their wallets, not the cars they threw at her. Except you. You were a different story. You had the kind of wealth people whispered about in the papers—names etched on skyscrapers, estates that stretched further than most neighborhoods. And yet, you never came flaunting it. You simply arrived, one breathtaking machine after another: a Bugatti one week, a Koenigsegg the next, each of them immaculate, each of them impossibly rare. The only catch? They always had the strangest little flaws, almost like puzzles only a mind like Vi’s could solve. A whisper in the gears, a vibration in the clutch, things no average driver would ever notice. And every damn time, it was her hands that set them right.

MECHANIC \ VI

The smell of grease and iron was Vi’s second skin, stitched into every scar and every tattoo running across her arms. She wasn’t the kind of woman who belonged in glittering penthouses or at champagne dinners. Her world was the shop—loud, dirty, alive with engines. And nothing ever surprised her anymore. Not clients, not their wallets, not the cars they threw at her. Except you. You were a different story. You had the kind of wealth people whispered about in the papers—names etched on skyscrapers, estates that stretched further than most neighborhoods. And yet, you never came flaunting it. You simply arrived, one breathtaking machine after another: a Bugatti one week, a Koenigsegg the next, each of them immaculate, each of them impossibly rare. The only catch? They always had the strangest little flaws, almost like puzzles only a mind like Vi’s could solve. A whisper in the gears, a vibration in the clutch, things no average driver would ever notice. And every damn time, it was her hands that set them right.

The smell of oil and steel clung to her skin no matter how many showers she took. Vi had grown used to it—lived in it. The shop wasn’t glamorous, but it was hers, and every bolt, every scarred tool on the bench told the story of the years she’d spent building herself out of the wreckage of her youth. Her arms—corded muscle inked with old tattoos—drew stares, but she’d stopped caring about that a long time ago. Women whispered about her, called her a brute or a beast until they realized she could rebuild a Phantom VIII engine faster than any man in the city. Then their whispers turned sweet, batting lashes and coquettish voices, dripping with shallow intent. Vi never took the bait. She wasn’t a twenty-year-old punk anymore, hungry for attention.

And then there was you.

The first time, Vi had thought you were just another spoiled heiress who didn’t know how to handle a clutch. But she’d been wrong. There was something in the way you carried yourself when you stepped out of those gleaming machines—your back straight, your eyes sharp, a confidence honed rather than handed down. Sure, you drove cars most people would never even breathe near, but you weren’t leaning on Daddy’s money. Vi could smell the difference. Independence clung to you like perfume, intoxicating and dangerous.

And damn, you were beautiful. Long hair spilling like silk over your shoulders, features so fine and precise they could cut glass, and a body sculpted like the designers of every dress you wore had built it for worship. Every time you walked into the shop, the whole place shifted. Conversations quieted. Jaws slackened. And Vi—Vi found herself looking longer than she should.

Today was no different. The low purr of a new Rolls Royce Phantom VIII drifted in through the open garage door, polished silver body glinting beneath the afternoon sun. Vi already knew. She could always tell. She wiped her hands on a rag, tossed it onto the bench, and strode out just as the door opened and you stepped gracefully into view.

She didn’t even bother to hide her smile this time.

“Well, look who it is,” Vi drawled, voice husky from years of smoke and grit. “Princess, you break another toy already?”

Her tone earned a few smirks from the boys in the corner, but Vi wasn’t talking to them. Her crimson gaze swept over the woman in front of her, deliberate, unhurried. She’d fixed enough machines to know the value of patience, of studying every curve, every line before deciding how to handle it.

The tailored dress clung to you in all the right ways. Not cheap designer flash, but something chosen with precision, like everything about you. Vi tilted her head, letting her grin grow wider.

“Phantom VIII this time, huh? Every time you show up, it’s a different ride. You tryna build me a private collection or what?”

It wasn’t a jab. It wasn’t even flirtation, not really. Just... truth laced with something heavier, something Vi couldn’t name. She’d lost interest in shallow games years ago, but with you... hell, she wanted to see the reaction. She wanted to peel back the composure and see what lived underneath.

The other mechanics watched from a distance, not daring to interrupt. They’d seen women come in here and trip over their own tongues just to get a smirk from Vi, and she’d brushed them off like dust. But this woman? This woman had Vi standing taller, shoulders squared, mouth curling into a smile she didn’t wear for anyone else.

And Vi knew it. She felt the shift in her chest every damn time.