Chapter Text
Victor had always thought small towns looked fake from the highway.
All those neat little grids of houses, the single water tower with peeling paint, the one main street with a diner and a hardware store and a church you could see from anywhere. It was like someone had taken a movie set and just dropped it in the middle of a bunch of cornfields.
Now it was his movie set.
He rolled into Fairview just after sunrise, the last of the fog lifting off the road as his Camaro roared down the two-lane strip that passed for an entrance. The car’s idle rumbled low and steady beneath him, a sound he trusted more than most people. Black ‘69, matte with a gloss hood, rebuilt from rust and junkyard scars—he knew every bolt, every line, every temperamental quirk. She wasn’t pretty in a polished, showroom way. She looked like she’d punch back.
He kind of liked that.
The GPS on his phone chirped like it had done something heroic by getting him here.
“Welcome to Fairview,” the sign announced in flaking blue paint. Population: small enough that everybody probably knew when you sneezed.
Victor downshifted and let the car roll past it, exhaling through his teeth. New town. New school. New people who didn’t know anything about him or the reasons his mom had thrown everything into boxes and declared they were leaving the city “for a fresh start.”
He would’ve preferred a fresh engine block. Those didn’t come with questions.
The high school sat where he’d expected it to be: at the edge of town, surrounded by a huge parking lot and a football field that took itself too seriously. The building itself looked tired in that “we paint the doors every ten years and call it renovation” sort of way.
But the parking lot—
Victor’s mouth quirked.
Trucks. Coupes. A couple of hand-me-down sedans. And parked near the back, under the one scraggly tree like it was a throne: a candy-apple red Charger with black stripes and tinted windows. Shiny. A little too shiny. The kind of car someone bought to be seen in, not to actually drive hard.
He eased the Camaro into an empty spot a few rows away, shifted into neutral, and cut the engine. Heads turned. The sound of his pipes had that effect.
A group of guys in letterman jackets stopped mid-conversation to stare. A cluster of girls near the entrance looked over, whispering behind their hands. Someone actually pulled out a phone and started filming like he’d just landed a UFO.
Victor ignored them, pulled his backpack from the passenger seat, and stepped out. The cool morning air hit his face, tinged with that faint smell of exhaust and cafeteria food.
He locked the car, felt the familiar weight of his keys in his hand, and only then let himself glance back toward the Charger. A tall guy was leaning against its hood, arms crossed. Expensive haircut. Designer sneakers. A smirk that said he knew exactly how many people were watching him exist.
Their eyes met across the parking lot.
Interesting, Victor thought.
The tall guy’s gaze flicked over Victor, down to his car, then up again. Something like irritation flashed there. Or maybe challenge. It was quick, replaced by a slow, confident grin.
Victor gave him the most minimal nod in history and headed for the school doors.
He’d barely reached the front steps when someone matched his pace.
“Nice car,” a voice said, low and amused.
Victor looked over. A girl in an oversized brown hoodie and ripped black jeans walked beside him, hands tucked into her sleeves. Blonde hair peeked out from under the hood, wavy and loose around her shoulders. Her eyes—blue, startlingly bright—flicked from him to the parking lot and back again.
“Thanks,” he said. “Yours?”
She snorted. “I wish. I drive a ‘05 Civic that sounds like it’s dying every time it goes up a hill.”
Victor smirked. “Sounds like a project.”
“Sounds like my dad’s ‘we’ll fix it this weekend’ lies,” she said, then stuck her hand out of her sleeve. “I’m Nova.”
Nova. The name landed in his head and sat there.
“Victor,” he said, shaking her hand.
She nodded once, quick, like she was filing that away. “You’re the new kid.”
“Is that on my forehead or something?”
“Basically. Fairview isn’t big on surprises.” She glanced over her shoulder. “Plus, word got out there was a ‘loud black muscle car’ on the highway this morning, so.”
Victor raised an eyebrow. “News travels fast.”
“Gossip travels faster,” Nova said. “And you just parked within glare distance of Clark’s ego, so…”
She trailed off as they stepped into the main hallway. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Lockers lined the walls, some dented, some decorated, a few hanging open like slack mouths. The murmur of student chatter rolled around them, along with the occasional slam of metal.
“Clark?” Victor asked.
Nova jerked her chin toward the windows that overlooked the parking lot. “Red Charger. King of the parking lot, king of the track, king of ‘can’t possibly be wrong about anything ever.’”
“He a teacher?” Victor deadpanned.
She laughed, the sound short but real. “Senior. He’s… popular.”
There was a word she wasn’t saying. Victor heard it anyway.
“He your friend?” he asked lightly.
Her jaw tightened for half a second. “Something like that.”
Before he could reply, someone called her name.
“Nova!”
He didn’t have to turn to know who it was. The energy told him. The shift in the hallway. The way conversations seemed to bend in that direction.
Clark strode toward them, backpack slung over one shoulder like an afterthought. Up close, he looked exactly like Victor had expected: athlete build, perfect smile, the casual swagger of someone who’d never had to wonder whether they belonged.
His gaze slid past Victor as if he were a chair, landing on Nova.
“There you are,” Clark said, leaning in to kiss her.
Victor watched Nova’s shoulders go slightly rigid before she forced them to relax. She let Clark kiss her, then pulled back, tucking her hair behind her ear.
“Hey,” she said.
“You didn’t text me when you got here,” Clark added, not quite a complaint, not quite a joke.
“I was walking in,” Nova replied. “I saw—”
His eyes finally flicked to Victor. “You the new guy?”
“Last time I checked,” Victor said.
Clark studied him, then jerked his chin toward the parking lot. “That your Camaro?”
“Yeah.”
“Loud as hell.” Clark smiled, but it wasn’t friendly. “You into racing or you just like waking up the dead?”
“Little of both,” Victor said.
Nova’s eyes flickered between them like she could see sparks starting.
Clark’s grin sharpened. “We run on Fridays. Out past Miller’s Farm. You should come watch. See what real speed looks like.”
“Maybe,” Victor said, noncommittal.
Clark leaned down to murmur something in Nova’s ear, his hand settling on her waist like it lived there. She tilted her head, letting him, though her mouth tightened.
Victor looked away.
He’d seen this dynamic before. Loud guy, quiet girl, everyone assuming that made them a perfect pair because one filled space and the other didn’t complain loudly enough.
It always looked a little like a hand on a leash.
“C’mon, babe,” Clark said, steering Nova down the hallway. “Coach wants to talk to me before homeroom. See you Friday, new guy.”
Victor watched them go for a second, then shifted his backpack and went to find the front office.
Fresh start, he reminded himself. Not your business.
Not yet.
Chemistry was halfway through the morning, buried in a corridor that smelled faintly of cleaning supplies and whatever disaster had spilled in there last semester. Victor stepped in, scanning the room.
Half the stations were already claimed. The teacher, a woman in her forties with sharp eyes and a bun that meant business, was writing something on the board.
“Schedule, seating, and the safety contract,” she said without turning when she heard him. “You must be Victor.”
He blinked. “That obvious?”
“In a class of nineteen, the twentieth stands out,” she replied, finally glancing over. “You’re from…?”
“Brooklyn,” he said.
“Welcome to Fairview,” she said, and he couldn’t tell if it was sincere or a warning. “Grab a contract and find a seat.”
He took a packet from the stack on her desk and turned, eyes scanning again. There was an empty stool at the back next to a girl with bright red headphones around her neck and intense focus on her notebook. Another near the front with a guy who looked like he might explode if anyone touched his perfect notes.
And one in the middle, at a station with someone who had her head bent over the textbook, blonde hair falling in a curtain.
Nova.
She looked up at the same time he did, eyes widening by a fraction.
“Oh,” she said. “Hey.”
“Is this seat taken?” Victor asked.
“Not unless you’re invisible,” she replied, moving her bag off the stool. “You’re in advanced chem? Brave.”
“I like blowing things up,” he said.
Her mouth twitched. “You and Clark are going to get along great. He almost set the lab coat rack on fire last semester.”
“Sounds… safe.”
“Oh, Mrs. Keane loved that,” Nova said dryly.
He dropped onto the stool beside her, pulling out his notebook. The desk between them was scarred with old knife marks and pen doodles. Someone had carved a lopsided heart and written C+N inside it.
Nova’s gaze caught on it, then slid away quickly.
The class started. Mrs. Keane launched into her expectations and the usual “this is not the place to be stupid with chemicals unless you want to live out the rest of your life regretting it” speech.
Victor followed along, but his attention drifted sideways every so often. Nova took neat, color-coded notes, her handwriting small and precise. She tapped her pen against the margin when she was thinking. When Mrs. Keane asked a question about stoichiometry, Nova answered without even glancing at her book.
Smart, he thought. Not just “keeps up.” Actually smart.
Halfway through, Mrs. Keane handed them a basic review worksheet and told them to work with their partners.
Nova pulled out a calculator and scanned the first problem. “Have you done mol-to-mass conversions before?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Victor said. “We did this unit last year.”
“Cool,” she said. “Sorry. It’s just… sometimes they stick people from regular chem in here by accident.”
“No offense taken,” he said. “If I crash and burn, I’ll let you say ‘I told you so.’”
She smiled faintly. “Deal.”
They worked through the problems, their pencils scratching quietly. At one point, Victor reversed a ratio and ended up with an impossible answer. He frowned, started erasing, and Nova leaned over slightly.
“Here,” she said, her finger tapping the denominator. “You switched these. Just flip them and you’re good.”
He glanced at her profile for a second. No smugness. Just… help.
“Thanks,” he said.
“Mm-hmm.”
They fell into a rhythm that surprised him. She didn’t fill silences unnecessarily. She didn’t flirt or fish for compliments. She just… existed next to him, capable and careful and tired in a way he recognized.
He was writing the last answer when a voice cut through the chatter at the front of the room.
“Keane, I swear the fire extinguisher was already empty when we got there—”
Clark burst in like he owned the air, laughing with two guys trailing after him. He held a tardy slip in his hand like it was an accessory, not an apology.
Mrs. Keane gave him a look that could strip paint. “Mr. Reyes, late on day one. Impressive.”
“You know me,” Clark said easily. “Always making an entrance.”
A few kids chuckled.
“Sit,” Mrs. Keane snapped. “And if you even look at the Bunsen burners wrong, I’m having you transferred to Intro to Rocks.”
Clark saluted, strutted down the aisle, and dropped into an empty station near the front. His gaze swept the room, landed on Nova, and then—very briefly—on Victor.
Victor dropped his eyes back to the worksheet, but he felt the weight of that look.
“So,” he murmured to Nova without looking up, “popular, smart, and in advanced chem.”
She blinked. “Who?”
“You,” he said.
She made a face. “I’m not popular. Clark is popular. I just… orbit.”
Something about the way she said it—light, but edged—stuck under his skin.
“Plan on orbiting forever?” he asked quietly.
She didn’t answer for a second. Then she forced a small smile. “Plan on finishing this worksheet before Keane takes it away.”
He let it go.
For now.
By the time the last bell rang, Victor’s head was buzzing with new names, classroom layouts, and the uncanny sense that the entire town ran on some sort of invisible script everyone else had memorized years ago.
He made it back to the parking lot and sighed in relief when he saw the Camaro sitting exactly where he’d left it. In some places, that wasn’t guaranteed.
He slid into the driver’s seat, tossing his backpack into the back. Before he could start the engine, there was a tap on his window.
He looked up.
Clark.
Of course.
Victor rolled the window down halfway.
“What’s up?” he asked.
Clark leaned his forearms on the top of the door like they were old friends. “Still can’t believe they let that thing on the lot,” he said, nodding toward the Camaro’s hood. “She sounds like a jet taking off.”
Victor smirked. “I aim to annoy.”
“You succeeding,” Clark said, but his tone was more fascinated than irritated. “What’s under there, anyway? Stock?”
Victor shrugged. “Best way to find out is race me.”
Clark barked out a laugh. “That supposed to be a joke?”
“You started it,” Victor said.
Clark’s eyes narrowed, just a little. “You actually run?”
“Sometimes.”
Clark drummed his fingers on the door. “We’re out on Miller’s Road tonight. Ten-thirty. You should come. Watch. Learn how Fairview does it.”
“Maybe,” Victor said.
“Careful,” Clark said. “Around here, ‘maybe’ sounds a lot like ‘I’m scared.’”
Victor smiled slowly. “You’ll know if I’m scared. I’ll be the one driving away.”
Clark’s jaw flexed.
Then the smile came back, more forced this time. “You got jokes,” he said. “We’ll see if you got anything else.”
He pushed off the car and strode back toward his group, who’d been watching the whole interaction like a live show.
Victor watched him go and shook his head, finally turning the key in the ignition. The Camaro rumbled to life.
He told himself he didn’t care.
He also told himself he wasn’t totally going to show up tonight.
The thing about lying, he thought, pulling out of the lot, was that it worked better when you didn’t know you were doing it.
Miller’s Road wasn’t on any official map of Fairview “Things to Do,” but by ten-thirty that night, it was the only thing anyone under twenty-one seemed interested in.
Victor followed the vague directions someone had slipped him in English class—“take the highway past the second silo, turn right at the broken fence, keep going till you hear idiots”—and sure enough, the night opened up into a flat stretch of road lit by headlights and phone screens.
Cars lined both sides of the gravel shoulder, engines idling low or shut off, hoods up, people clustered around like bees. Laughter and music mingled with the smell of gasoline and cheap beer.
Victor pulled in, the Camaro’s growl drawing eyes even over the speakers. Conversations dipped, then flared up again. He killed the engine and stepped out, scanning the crowd.
There were at least twenty cars he could see clearly. Some obviously built, some obviously pretending. The red Charger sat at the far end near the “start line,” marked by two reflective cones that looked like they’d been stolen from a construction site.
Clark leaned against his hood, drink in hand, surrounded by people. His arm was slung loosely around Nova’s shoulders. She stood stiffly, eyes flicking from car to car, a faint crease between her brows.
She saw Victor before Clark did.
Her gaze snagged on him, surprise flashing across her face. Then confusion. Then something like relief she quickly smoothed away.
Clark followed her line of sight and straightened. “Well, look who’s not scared,” he called, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Heads turned.
Victor shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and walked closer, feeling the collective attention latch onto him like hooks.
“You made it,” Clark said.
“Roads are public last time I checked,” Victor replied.
A murmur rolled through the crowd. Someone near the back whispered, “Brooklyn boy thinks he’s tough,” and someone else snickered.
“Relax, guys,” Clark said, smirking. “No one’s asking him to put pink slips on the line his first night.”
“Yet,” one of his friends chimed in.
Victor glanced at the Charger, then at the stretch of road. He could feel the itch in his fingers, the familiar urge to be behind the wheel, to line up and let everything else burn into background static.
But he forced himself to lean back against his car instead.
“Just here to watch,” he said.
Clark looked almost disappointed. “Shame. Could’ve given you a proper welcome.”
“You don’t like tourists?” Victor asked.
Nova’s lips twitched at that, like she was fighting a smile.
Clark noticed. His arm tightened around her shoulders. “We don’t like people talking big and not backing it up,” he said, eyes back on Victor.
“I haven’t said anything big,” Victor replied calmly. “That’s all you.”
Something edged flickered across Clark’s face. “We’ll fix that eventually,” he said. “Drink?”
He held up his red plastic cup as if it were a peace offering.
“No, thanks,” Victor said. “I like to remember what mistakes I make.”
A few kids actually laughed at that. Clark’s smile went flat for a heartbeat.
“All right then,” he said, straightening. “Let’s give the new guy a show.”
He pushed off the car, grabbed his keys, and strutted to the driver’s side, the crowd moving with him like a tide.
Victor stayed where he was, arms crossed, watching as the first two racers lined up between the cones. Engines revved. Someone with a flashlight stepped into the middle, arm raised, then dropped it. Tires screamed. The cars shot forward into the night, taillights shrinking.
It went like that for a while. Runs and returns, cheering and groaning, money changing hands. Clark smoked everyone who went up against him, the Charger roaring down the asphalt like it owned the dark.
Victor watched closely. Clark had decent reflexes. Aggressive launch, late braking. He drifted a little too showy in the mid-section, wasting time for the sake of impressing the crowd. His lines weren’t as clean as he thought they were.
Fast, sure.
Not untouchable.
At one point, during a lull between races, Nova drifted away from the main group, wrapping her arms around herself against the chill. The hoodie she wore earlier had been swapped for a white crop top and a flannel, more skin than looked comfortable in the night air.
She ended up not far from Victor’s car, staring out at the dark fields beyond the makeshift track.
“Cold?” Victor asked quietly.
She startled, then relaxed when she saw it was him. “A little.”
“You want—”
He shrugged off his jacket halfway before he caught himself. That… would be noticed.
Nova seemed to think the same thing. Her gaze darted back to the group, to where Clark was holding court. “I’m fine,” she said quickly.
He settled the jacket back on his shoulders. “So this is the famous Fairview Friday night.”
“Yeah,” she said, rubbing her hands up and down her arms. “Thrilling, right?”
“It’s something,” he said.
She huffed a laugh. “You don’t have to be nice about it. I know it’s stupid.”
“Racing’s not stupid,” he said. “The way some people do it is.”
“Tell that to Clark,” she muttered.
“Why don’t you?” The question slipped out before he could stop it.
She looked at him, eyes shadowed in the wash of headlights and phone screens. “You don’t just tell Clark things,” she said. “You suggest and hope he thinks it was his idea.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It is,” she said, then glanced away. “But… he’s the best.”
There it was again, that script everyone seemed to be reading from. The best. Untouchable. Unquestionable.
“And that means what?” Victor asked. “He gets to be a jerk and everyone claps?”
Nova’s jaw tightened. “He’s not—he’s just… intense. When he’s racing, he’s different.”
“Is that supposed to be a good thing?”
She opened her mouth, closed it, and shook her head. “You don’t know him.”
“Not yet,” Victor agreed. “But I know how he talks to people.”
She flinched like he’d touched a bruise. Before she could answer, someone shouted her name.
“Nova! Get over here!” One of Clark’s friends waved her back. “He wants you at the line.”
She straightened automatically. “I should—”
“Yeah,” Victor said softly. “I get it.”
She hesitated like she wanted to say something else, then just nodded and walked away, shoulders a little too tight.
Victor watched as Clark wrapped an arm around her, pulling her against his side while he joked with his buddies. He watched the way Nova’s smile never quite reached her eyes.
The next race was Clark versus some guy in a souped-up Mustang. Clark won by half a car length, slamming on the brakes at the last second, tires squealing. The crowd screamed, swarming around him as he climbed out, holding his hands up like a champion.
Someone shoved Nova forward. “Kiss the winner!” a girl slurred.
Nova laughed weakly. “Maybe later—”
Clark grabbed her waist and hauled her up onto the hood of his car like she weighed nothing.
“Hey—” she gasped, grabbing at his shoulders for balance.
“C’mon, babe,” he said loudly. “Don’t be shy.”
People whooped. Phones went up, recording.
Nova’s face flushed bright red. She tugged at the hem of her shirt, trying to keep it from riding up. “Clark, seriously—”
He leaned in, bracing his hands on either side of her, caging her in. “What? You’re mine,” he said, like that explained everything.
Victor’s grip on his keys tightened until the metal dug into his palm.
“Clark,” Nova said again, lower this time. He could hear the embarrassment in it, the edge of something like panic. “Can you put me down?”
“Relax,” Clark laughed. “You look hot.”
She tried to slide off the hood. His hand shot out, fingers circling her wrist—not hard enough to bruise, but firm enough that she froze.
The cheer from the crowd turned uneasy at the edges, then smoothed out again when he grinned.
Victor felt his whole body go very, very still.
This is not your business, he told himself.
Then Nova’s eyes flicked up, frantic and searching, and for half a second they landed on him.
That was all it took.
Victor pushed off his car and started walking.
He didn’t think about it. He just moved, the sound of his boots on gravel cutting under the noise. A few people noticed and stepped back instinctively; there was something in the set of his jaw that said do not get in my way.
He reached the front of the crowd just as Clark’s hand slid to the small of Nova’s back, pressing her down against the warm metal for another round of attention she clearly didn’t want.
“Let her go,” Victor said.
The words weren’t loud. They didn’t need to be.
Silence rippled outward from that spot like someone had dropped a stone into a pond.
Clark turned his head slowly. “What did you say?”
Victor met his gaze evenly. “She said she wants down. Let her go.”
A dozen eyes snapped between them. Nova’s breath hitched. “Victor—” she started, panicked.
Clark’s grip tightened. “This doesn’t concern you, Brooklyn.”
“It does when you’re ignoring her,” Victor said, voice still level. “She’s not a trophy.”
For a heartbeat, Clark’s face went blank. Then he laughed, loud and forced.
“Look at this guy,” he said to the crowd. “One day in town and he thinks he can tell me what to do with my girl.”
Murmurs, nervous and thrilled.
“She’s not your anything if she says no,” Victor replied.
There it was. The crack. The thing nobody else had been willing to say out loud.
Clark’s smile vanished. He let go of Nova like he’d been burned. She scrambled off the hood, nearly losing her footing on the gravel. Victor moved without thinking, hand out, steadying her by the elbow.
“You okay?” he asked, low so only she could hear.
She nodded too quickly, eyes wide.
“Hey.” Clark stepped forward, chest puffed. “Hands off.”
Victor’s jaw clenched. He dropped his hand from Nova’s arm. “Maybe try listening when she says stop,” he said.
“Oohhh,” someone in the back whispered, like they were watching a bomb get armed.
“You got a problem with me, say it,” Clark snapped, right up in Victor’s space now. They were almost eye level, Clark slightly taller, breath hot with beer.
Victor held his ground. “I was watching you make your problem everyone else’s.”
Clark’s hands curled into fists. For a second, it looked like he might swing.
Then something mean and calculating slid into his eyes instead.
“You think you’re better than me?” he asked softly. “On the road?”
Victor didn’t answer.
That was answer enough.
Clark sneered. “Here’s how it works, Brooklyn. Around here, I’m king. You want to talk big, you bring your car to the line and you back it up.”
He jerked his chin toward the Camaro. “I’ll race you right now.”
The crowd sucked in a collective breath.
“Clark, don’t,” Nova whispered. “You’ve been drinking—”
He didn’t look at her. “Shut up, Nova.”
Victor’s teeth clicked together. “Don’t talk to her like that.”
“Oh, he’s got a hero complex,” Clark taunted. “Let me guess. You think you’re gonna roll in from the big city, take my crown, take my girl, and everybody’s gonna clap?”
“That your worst fear or your best fantasy?” Victor asked, tone mild.
Laughter spiked around them, sharp and disbelieving. Clark’s face went red.
“You want her so bad, race me,” he hissed. “Winner takes all.”
Nova stared at him, horrified. “Clark—”
Victor’s heart slammed in his chest. For a split second, he pictured it—lining up, feeling the car launch, proving what he could do.
But not like this. Not drunk. Not on a dare someone else wanted more than he did.
“Not tonight,” Victor said, stepping back. “I don’t race idiots who can’t walk a straight line.”
Clark lunged, and for a second Victor thought he’d have to duck a punch. But two of Clark’s friends grabbed his arms.
“Dude, chill,” one of them muttered. “Cops come out here if it gets loud.”
Clark shook them off, glaring daggers at Victor. “You’re scared,” he spat.
“No,” Victor said calmly. “I’m sober.”
A couple of people actually laughed at that, then immediately tried to cover it up when Clark’s head snapped toward them.
He turned back to Victor, eyes blazing. “You think you’re better than me,” he said again, quieter this time. “We’re gonna settle that. Soon.”
He jabbed a finger toward the Camaro. “Bring that piece of junk next time. I’ll wipe the road with it.”
Victor’s fingers itched to redirect that finger somewhere painful. Instead, he smiled. Slow. Sharp.
“I’ll race you,” he said. “When the stakes are worth it.”
Clark frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Victor looked past him, just for a second, at Nova—pale, chewing her bottom lip, arms wrapped around herself.
“If I’m risking my car,” he said, “I’m not doing it for your beer money.”
The idea was already forming in the back of his mind. Dangerous. Stupid. Exactly the kind of thing that would either fix everything or blow it all apart.
He didn’t say it yet.
But he knew.
Soon enough, there’d be a race.
And when there was, it wouldn’t be for pride.
It would be for her.