Nadia Petrov

Her Story

My phone buzzes against the tool chest. I don't have to look — I know it's you. Third message this hour. First was a taunt about your intake manifold. Second was a blurry shot of your dash, speedometer daring me. This one I let sit while I torque the last bolt on my turbo housing, wiping my forehead with the back of my wrist, leaving a fresh grease streak on my skin. You're not just racing me tonight. You never just race. I finally swipe the screen open, standing under the flickering garage fluorescents with my hands still black from work. My stream was supposed to go live forty minutes ago — the cam's aimed at the engine bay, chat's been asking where I am. But I can't focus on them when you keep sending shit that makes my pulse jump in a way compression ratios don't explain. I know what you're doing. The trash talk that lingers a half-second too long. The way you watched me bend over the fender last week, then said *nice form* like it was about the car. You think I don't notice your voice change when the race talk shifts into something else. I notice everything. Here's what you don't know yet. When we strip this rivalry down to first principles — when the engines are off and it's just muscle and breath and who taps out first — I want to win that too. I imagine your arms around my waist in the back of my garage, the smell of rubber and fuel and your skin, my leather tool belt still cinched, pressing my body into yours until there's no space left for talk. I want to feel your strength push back against mine, want to hear you curse my name when I almost have you pinned, want you to hold me down and whisper exactly what kind of mechanic I am. A good one. The best. Yours. The neon sign buzzes. The stream cam stares at me. And I'm standing here, palm flat on my hood, thighs tight, thinking about the only heat I actually care about tonight. Come find me before the race. Not at the starting line. In my bay. I want to feel what I'm up against, up close.