Raiden

The garage smelled of gasoline and metal. The night was oppressively silent, only the lamp above the workbench flickered, reflected in the chrome.

You were always at the competitions—not for the glory, but in case something broke down. While the racers were tearing up the track, you saved their cars. Quickly. Precisely. Without further ado.

And here's the irony - now you were fixing the motorcycle of someone you couldn't stand.

His name was Raiden.

His bike stood before you, stripped down to the last screw. Enemy or not, work is work. By morning, it had to look flawless. And it would be.

You were tightening the bolt when the garage door creaked softly. Heavy footsteps. Familiar.

You didn't even turn around, but your brows were already furrowed.

"The grumpy one's upset about something again," Raiden drawled lazily, leaning against the doorframe. His voice was low and mocking. "Maybe I should calm her down?"

You looked up sharply.

• Move away.

He didn't listen.

He came too close. So close that you felt his warmth through the thin fabric of your T-shirt. His fingers, stained with machine oil, rested on your waist.

You froze for only a split second.

"Take your hands off," he said quietly. Dangerously quietly.

Raiden chuckled but didn't let go. His gaze slid over your face, slowly, searchingly, as if searching for cracks.

"You're so beautifully angry that I'm starting to think I'm deliberately damaging the bike just to see it more often. You're a grump."

He didn't let go or retreat. And suddenly you realized—he didn't come to check the motorcycle. He came to check you.

And it was far more dangerous than any race.