Chapter 1 -- Orientation
The garage smelled like heat.
Like rubber, oil, and something metallic that clung to the back of your throat. Natalia stood just inside the open bay door, letting the filtered sun catch her face as she adjusted her grip on the worn leather strap of her tote. The space didn't feel like a classroom--it felt like a machine still catching its breath.
The overhead lights buzzed above the rows of workbenches, steel trays, and half-disassembled engine blocks. Air compressors exhaled in the background, rhythmic and slow, like the building itself had lungs. The lift bays were quiet for now, but the room held a kind of weight, as if everything in it had a memory. As if the concrete floor had heard things.
She didn't belong here. Not by résumé, not by lineage. And that, if anything, made her want to stay.
Natalia crossed her arms beneath the soft drape of her hoodie and scanned the space, eyes sharp beneath lashes she hadn't bothered to mascara this morning. Her espresso-dark hair was pulled into a loose knot, damp at the nape from the coastal humidity. She hadn't even touched her notebook.
Instead, she listened.
The professor stood at the front, backlit by a fluorescent halo and the scribbled mess of diagrams on the whiteboard behind him--exploded engine views, pressure charts, hand-sketched torque curves. His voice was low and unpolished, not loud but clear, the kind of voice that didn't chase attention. It invited you to keep up or fall behind.
He was talking about combustion cycles now--compression ratios, air-fuel mixtures, the delicate balance of timing and pressure. But to Natalia, it sounded like poetry.
Combustion isn't chaos, he said, chalk squeaking faintly. It's choreography. Everything moving in rhythm. Controlled detonation. Power, with boundaries.
That line stuck. It lingered.
She leaned against the cool metal of the tool cabinet and let her gaze drift--not at the boys in the row ahead who kept glancing back at her, not at the kid next to her whose pen never stopped tapping--but at him. The professor.
He barely looked her way.
But once--just once--their eyes met. Mid-sentence. And it wasn't a flinch or a falter. It was... awareness.
Not desire. Not yet.
But something just as dangerous.
Chapter 2 -- The Apartment
The apartment smelled like rosemary and sea air.
Natalia shut the door behind her with a soft push, the deadbolt clicking into place with a hollow little thunk that echoed through the stillness. Barefoot, she padded across warm hardwood floors, past sun-bleached windows and the sprawl of her open kitchen, exhaling slowly as she peeled off her hoodie and let it fall across a dining chair.
It was quiet here. Not the kind of silence that comforted. The kind that revealed.
Her phone buzzed on the counter.
Mother.
She rolled her eyes before she picked up.
The conversation lasted exactly six minutes. Long enough for her mother to ask shallow questions with a chirped sweetness Natalia knew was performative--was expected--and long enough for Natalia to give answers that meant nothing.
"Yes, it's good here."
"No, I haven't met anyone."
"Yes, I'm eating."
She ended the call mid-sentence. Her thumb hovered over the screen for a moment before she turned it face-down.
In the kitchen, she pulled a bundle of herbs from the ceramic wall hook--dried bay, fennel stalks, citrus leaves. The smell grounded her. She washed rice slowly, methodically, watching the water cloud with starch until it ran clear. The rhythm calmed her.
A knock at the door cut through the silence. She didn't jump.
Candace, her neighbor and occasional weed buddy, leaned against the doorframe holding a jar of fresh flower.
They cooked--spicy noodles, wilted greens--and smoked while lounging on the futon. Natalia thumbed through dating apps, bored. A blur of half-faces and shirtless torsos.
"What are you even looking for?" Candace asked, blowing smoke toward the ceiling.
Natalia grinned. "Not 'who.' Just a reaction. A little chaos."
Chapter 3 -- The Date
The bar was one of those places that tried too hard to seem effortless.
Dim lighting. Brass fixtures. Bartenders in rolled-up sleeves pouring bespoke cocktails. Jazz playing softly beneath the noise of soft laughter and ice in shakers.
Natalia was early. She liked being early--it gave her time to observe.
She sat at the bar in a low-backed stool, one leg crossed high over the other, heel dangling lazily from her foot. Her black halter top clung like water, showing just enough to remind--never enough to invite. A delicate chain rested between her collarbones. No makeup beyond a sheer gloss and the flush of sun still caught on her cheekbones.
She sipped something dark, bitter, and expensive.
He arrived seven minutes late.
The man was tall, lean, and as forgettable as his photos. Chiseled jaw. Tailored shirt. The kind of stubble that took effort to look casual. He slid in beside her like he was used to being wanted.
"You're even hotter in person," he said without offering a name.
Natalia offered a flat smile. "That line usually work?"
He laughed. "Guess we'll find out."
The conversation limped along. He spoke in Instagram quotes. Hustle culture. Real estate. Crypto. He touched her elbow twice. She moved away both times. He didn't notice.
She let him talk.
And talk.
And talk.
By the time he leaned in, breath warm and audacious, to murmur, "Want to sneak off to the bathroom? I bet you're wild in private," her interest was gone.
But her appetite wasn't.
She turned toward him, gaze steady.
"Sure," she said, and slid off the stool with liquid ease.
The bathroom was sleek, modern, dimly lit with a gold mirror and stone sink. She locked the door behind them with a click that sounded like a gun cocking.
He reached for her waist.
She caught his wrist mid-motion.
"No."
He blinked. "What--"
"I said no hands. Take out your tongue. That's all I need."
He laughed nervously, but she didn't smile.
"On your knees."
His smirk faded, confused. But she didn't move. She just stared. Waiting.
Slowly, awkwardly, he dropped.
She stepped forward, tugging her jeans just far enough down to reveal the clean, bare skin between her thighs.
Her voice dropped to a low, firm command.
"You want to be useful? Then worship me. Mouth only. Slow. Like you mean it."
He obeyed, hesitant at first, tongue flicking, uncertain.
She gripped the back of his head.
"No. Not like that. Suck. Then deeper. Tongue me until I forget your name."
He whimpered, his hands instinctively rising.
"Behind your back. You don't get to touch. You earn every sound I make."
Her hips began to roll, slowly, rhythmically. She used his face like a tool, guiding him with quiet gasps and sharp little instructions.
"That's it... yes... just like that... fuck, don't stop now."
She came on his face--slow and controlled, holding him in place with both hands.
Then she stepped back, fixed her jeans, and wiped a finger across her inner thigh.
"Thanks for the tongue," she said as he stared up, dazed. "That's all I needed."
She walked out without looking back.
Chapter 4 -- Under the Hood
