Chapter 1
The smell of motor oil clung to Lillia like a second skin. She crouched under the hood of a ’97 Mustang, fingers black with grease, muscles aching as she twisted a stubborn bolt that refused to give. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, but the hum of machinery and the faint purr of the engine felt like home — controlled, honest, and predictable, unlike the chaos waiting for her outside. A scrappy gray cat perched in the corner, eyes bright and expectant, and she smirked, scratching behind its ears. “Yeah, you get it,” she whispered, savoring the rare quiet of the shop.
Hours passed, punctuated by the hiss of air tools and the occasional clang of metal. Old man Harris muttered complaints at a beat-up pickup across the shop, and Lillia caught his nod, small approval that made her chest tighten with pride. She wiped her hands on a rag and glanced at the clock. Way past Time to leave. She tugged on her hoodie and stepped outside, leaving the comforting smell of grease behind for a world that demanded performance.
Home was always worse than school. She slipped through the door quietly, backpack heavy with textbooks, hoping he wouldn’t notice she’d been late again. A shadow in the kitchen, the scrape of a chair, and her stomach knotted. Her father sat at the table, empty mug in hand, eyes sharp and calculating. “Where’ve you been?” he asked casually, the kind of casual that always carried a sting.
“Working,” she muttered, voice tight. He didn’t ask where, didn’t care. He just raised an eyebrow and let silence stretch like a blade. She kept her gaze on the floor, the bite of his presence a familiar ache. She’d learned not to cry, not to argue. Just exist quietly and move through the day. He hadnt been drinking which meant he was leaving for work soon. Hopefully.
The next morning, campus smelled different — bright, loud, and merciless. Lillia pulled her hoodie tight, shoved her hands in her pockets, and picked up her pace, weaving through a sea of polished shoes, designer backpacks, and rehearsed laughter. Whispers trailed her like a storm cloud. “Gross. Did you see her hands? Covered in grease again.” “She thinks she’s tough, working at some dumb mechanic shop.” “She doesn’t even wear real clothes.” She gritted her teeth, keeping her stride steady. Don’t give them the satisfaction.
In class, she slid into a seat at the back, textbooks splayed across the desk. She kept her gaze low, headphones ready, trying to vanish. The teacher droned on about engines and friction, but her focus was already elsewhere — the jocks leaning against lockers in the hallway, the popular girls whispering with knowing smirks. And then he appeared.
Jax.
He leaned casually against the doorway, scanning the classroom like he owned it. His dark eyes locked on hers, smirk in place. Leather jacket open, messy hair falling in just the right way, he had that chaos about him that made her pulse quicken despite herself. He strolled toward an empty seat next to her, deliberately letting his knee brush against her desk as he passed.
“Cute,” he said softly, loud enough for only her to hear, voice low and teasing. Her laugh was short, clipped. “You’ve got a lot of nerve making fun of people you don’t even know" He tilted his head, eyes sharp. “Maybe I’m making fun of the one person who actually doesn’t care about me.” Heat flared in her chest. Hands curled into fists at her sides. “You’re insane if you think I’m scared of you.” “Good,” he murmured, voice almost intimate. “I hate scared.” Her heart thudded, confusingly fast. She couldn’t tell if she hated him or hated noticing him at all. A brief brush of his knee against her desk made her flinch, and she shoved her attention back to the teacher, forcing herself to breathe. Not yet. Not ever. Managing to survive the rest of the day with as few problems as possible, she finally made it to the parking lot, on to her motorcycle, and to work.
By the time she returned to the shop that evening, the sun had dipped below the horizon. The Mustang’s stubborn bolt had finally surrendered, and she leaned back, hands greasy, shoulders aching, a flicker of pride warming her chest. She traced a finger along a bruise hidden under her sleeve, thinking of Jax’s smirk, of the heat of his gaze, and the weight of her father’s silence back home. She shook her head. “Not yet. Not ever.”
The gray cat hopped onto the hood, nudging her gently. Grease, sweat, and motor oil — maybe that was love, too. Honest. Safe. Real. Outside, the wind whispered past the shop, carrying the world she was still forced to navigate, waiting for her. And tomorrow, the school would be waiting, too. Pulling the cat food out of her toolbox, she fills the small dish, putting it on the ground for Diesel, the name given after she found the cat coated in diesel oil. Her phone rings from inside her bookbag. She fishes it out with a sigh, already knowing it was her father who was calling.
"Bring beer home on your way home! Don't be late either! The guys are coming over, and you need to look nice." The call ended, and she shook her head. Beer and "the guys," which means it will be a long, gross night. She dives into work back on the mustang for a few hours before her 7 pm alarm goes off. "I'm out, guys," She annouces, waving bye before walking out of the shop to her motorcycle, heading out of work to the store to buy the beer, then heading "home".
