Archive of Our Own ^beta

"I’m actually going to do it. I’m going to sell them both on eBay," Enjin hissed, his forehead thumping rhythmically against the steering wheel of his old, silver SUV. 

4:07 AM. The sun hadn’t even thought about waking up yet. Outside the windshield, the world was a blurry, deep blue, silent except for the low hum of his engine and the occasional chirp of a confused bird. 

Enjin had been idling in the driveway for ten minutes—which, in "Enjin time," felt like three hours. Why? Because his sister, Riyo, had a sudden existential crisis because she "couldn't find her left eyebrow."

Enjin was nineteen. In the world that actually mattered—the world of asphalt, burnt rubber, and high-octane adrenaline—he was a legend. He was the fastest driver in the underground circuit, a guy who could take a hairpin turn at ninety miles per hour without breaking a sweat. And yet, here he was, serving a life sentence as a glorified Uber driver for a high-schooler who thought 4:00 AM was a perfectly reasonable time to hit the mall for a "limited edition drop."

"I am a man of the people," Enjin whispered to his dashboard, his voice a gravelly sleep-deprived mess. He rubbed his eyes, feeling the grit of a late night spent under the hood of his real car, the Red 08. "I am a racer. I am a masculine pillar of the community. I should be sleeping or changing my oil, not waiting for—"

SLAM.

The front door of the house hit the siding so hard Enjin felt the vibration through the driveway. He winced, thinking about the door frame.

Riyo came sprinting out like she was being chased by a pack of hungry lions, clutching a designer tote bag to her chest like it was a professional football. Right behind her, Amo was practically floating down the steps. Amo looked like a haunted Victorian doll that had been hit with a bucket of lace, white ribbons, and black bows.

"START THE CAR, ENBRO! WE’RE LATE! THE LINE IS GOING TO BE AROUND THE BLOCK!" Riyo screamed, launching herself into the backseat with the grace of a falling piano.

"Don't yell in my car, you gremlin!" Enjin barked back, his heart rate finally spiking from the sheer noise. Despite the attitude, his hand was already instinctively reaching over the center console, pulling the seatbelt to make sure it clicked over Amo as she climbed in.

He looked at Amo in the rearview mirror. She was currently trying to tuck a massive, ruffled petticoat into the passenger seat without crushing it. It looked like she was trying to fit a cloud into a shoebox.

"Amo, seriously. Why are you dressed like a funeral for a cupcake?" Enjin asked, throwing the SUV into reverse. "If you get a ribbon stuck in my gear shift, we’re all going to die. I hope you know that. That's death by lace. It’s embarrassing."

Amo gave him a small, apologetic smile, the kind she always used to disarm his grumpiness. She adjusted a tiny white bow on her wrist. “Amo call it as Coquette Goth, Enjin. Riyo said it was the dress code for today. We have to look the part for the drop."

"Dress code? For the mall? At dawn?" Enjin shifted into gear, the SUV letting out a tired, mechanical groan as if it were just as annoyed as he was. "You guys are a public health hazard. Truly."

Enjin was, objectively speaking, the best brother ever. He complained, he groaned, and he acted like every favor was a monumental sacrifice, but he never actually said no.

He had spent the entire morning being the ultimate "Bro-logic" consultant. While Riyo was frantic, Enjin was the one who checked the mall’s Instagram to see which entrance was opening first. He was the one who explained which campus building near the mall had the fastest Wi-Fi so they could check their orders. He even gave honest feedback on Riyo’s outfit, even if it was brutal.

“You look like a neon sign, Riyo. You’re gonna blind the mall security and we’ll get kicked out before the doors even open,” he’d told her earlier. But when he saw her face drop that genuine, little-sister disappointment, he’d sighed and softened his tone.

“Okay, fine. The shoes are dope, kid. No one has Nikes that clean. And the tote bag? It’s... fine. It fits the vibe. You look fresh. Did Amo give you that?”

That was the Enjin special: a layer of sarcasm over a foundation of total support.

But being the "cool brother" was exhausting work. For three straight hours, Enjin followed them through the mall like a disgruntled bodyguard. He stood outside boutiques, his large frame looking completely out of place next to mannequins wearing sequins. He held iced coffees that were too sweet for him and tiny pink shopping bags that felt like they were made of air. He leaned against glass storefronts with his arms crossed, eyes half-closed, looking like he was guarding a high-security vault instead of a store that sold glittery phone cases.

At the moment, he was holding a half-drunk strawberry matcha with extra foam because Riyo "got tired of holding it" while she was trying on shoes.

"Riyo, put that down. You have six pairs of sneakers at home. You only have two feet. Do the math," Enjin called out, his voice sharp and annoyed as she eyed a pair of chunky white boots.

But even as he complained, he noticed Amo struggling. She was trying to balance a box of cinnamon rolls, her phone, and two shopping bags while her lace sleeves kept sliding down.

"Here, give me that before you drop it on your lace whatever-that-is," he grumbled, stepping over and snatching the box of rolls away. He tucked it under his arm with the practiced ease of someone who handled heavy car parts daily.

"You're so mean to us, Enjin," Riyo pouted, skipping over and hooking her arm through his, leaning her head against his bicep. "Why do you hate fun? Why do you hate beauty?"

"I don't hate fun. I hate the fact that I’ve been awake for five hours and I haven't seen a single piece of engine grease or a wrench," Enjin snapped, though he didn't pull his arm away. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a crumpled twenty-dollar bill, and shoved it toward Riyo. "Go buy those stupid ruffled socks you were looking at. And get Amo the ones with the little wings on the back. If I have to be stuck in this pink nightmare, you’re at least going to look like you’re having a good time so it wasn't a waste of my sleep."

Riyo squealed, her eyes lighting up. she stood on her tiptoes and hugged him, nearly spilling the matcha all over his favorite black hoodie. "Best brother ever!"

"Get off me! You’re getting glitter on me! It’s going to get into the upholstery!" Enjin pushed her away, looking disgusted and brushing at his chest, but he kept a careful eye on her to make sure she didn't trip over her own platform shoes as she ran back into the store.

8:30 AM. The car ride back was what Enjin imagined a fever dream felt like. The cabin of the SUV, which usually smelled like "Old Spice" and "New Car" scent, was now a sensory nightmare. It smelled like a chaotic mix of high-end floral perfume, sugary cinnamon icing, and artificial strawberry tea.

The backseat was piled high with bags of clothes that looked like they belonged in a dollhouse. Enjin pulled up to the house, the morning sun finally starting to peek over the rooflines, casting long shadows across the pavement.

"We're here. Out. Move it," Enjin commanded, though he was already unbuckling to go around and help them carry the haul to the door.

Riyo hopped out, her energy still at a ten despite the early hour. "Thanks for the ride, Chauffeur! You're invited to the fashion show later!" She blew him a dramatic kiss, which Enjin literally "caught" in the air and then tossed onto the driveway.

"Don't call me again today! I'm changing my number! I'm moving to another country!" he yelled back as they scurried inside, giggling and tripping over their bags.

As he pulled away, leaving the quiet suburban street behind, the silence of the car finally began to settle in. It felt heavy. He reached out and aggressively turned off the pop music Riyo had left playing, letting the mechanical hum of the engine take over. This was his territory again.

He ran a hand through his messy, dark hair, feeling the grit of the long morning. He looked at his reflection in the rearview mirror. Dark circles under his eyes, a jawline that needed a shave, and... he squinted. There was a smudge of pink icing on his cheek.

"Disgusting," he muttered, wiping it off with his thumb.

He was Enjin K. He was a straight-forward guy. He liked standard shifts, simple rules, and clear results. 

He didn't do "aesthetic." He didn't do "pretty." 

He didn't understand why a person would need four different shades of the same white ribbon. He just did the job, kept his head down, and focused on the finish line.

But as he pulled into the campus parking lot for his 10:00 AM Calculus lecture, a class he was definitely going to be too tired to understand, his mind drifted back to the girls' conversation. They had spent at least forty minutes in the backseat arguing about someone named Tamsy.

Tamsy said this. Tamsy would love this lace. Did you see Tamsy's post?

"Tamsy," Enjin muttered under his breath, the name feeling weird and foreign on his tongue. "What kind of stupid name is that? Sounds like a brand of cough medicine."

He checked his reflection one last time, aggressively wiping the last of the "mall energy" off his face. "Probably just another bratty kid with too much hair gel and a trust fund. I’m staying far away from that mess."

He hopped out of the car, slamming the heavy metal door with a confident thud that echoed through the parking garage. He adjusted his backpack, straightened his hoodie, and started the long walk toward the lecture hall.

He felt "normal." He was back in his world now—the world of logic, numbers, and hard facts, hell, this Engineering. 

The campus of Saint Akuta’s was buzzing with that typical first-day-of-the-semester energy. You know the vibe—freshmen looking lost with their giant maps, girls in coordinated outfits taking "candid" photos near the fountain, and the smell of expensive coffee and asphalt everywhere.

Enjin was currently walking toward the main building, feeling like a zombie that had been dressed in a jock’s hoodie. His eyes were heavy, his brain was still vibrating from the NewJeans music Riyo had blasted in his SUV, and he was pretty sure he had a permanent twitch in his left eye from the stress of the mall.

"Yo, eight! Catch!"

Enjin’s hand moved on instinct. He caught a battered, grease-stained notebook mid-air without even looking. He turned to see Gris Rubion jogging up to him, a lopsided grin on his face. 

Gris was Enjin’s literal other half—the PB to his J, the lipstick to his white Valentino bag (though Enjin would never admit that metaphor out loud). They’d been best bros since they got into a fistfight over whose car toy was faster in fourth grade. Since then, they had spent every summer doing stupid stuff, breaking bones, and fixing engines.

"You’re late, bro. I thought you died in the garage," Gris laughed, throwing a heavy arm over Enjin’s shoulder.

Enjin groaned, shoving the notebook into his bag. "Man, don’t even start. Riyo and Amo made me their personal chauffeur at four in the morning. Four, Gris! I was at the mall before the sun was even a concept. I’m basically a professional bag-carrier now."

Gris cackled. "For sure it took a while for them to even walk out the door. I know Riyo—she probably had to decide between three different shades of the same pink gloss."

"Tell me about it," Enjin muttered.

As they stepped into the main hallway of the Chemisty-Lab building, the peace was immediately shattered.

"EYYY! THERE THEY ARE! THE TWO PRETTIEST GIRLS ON CAMPUS!"

A loud, booming voice echoed off the lockers. Zodyl Typhon was leaning against a vending machine, looking like he owned the place. Beside him stood Arkha Corvus, who just gave a cool, silent nod. Zodyl cupped his hands around his mouth and let out a loud, obnoxious catcall that sounded more like a dying bird, making a group of nearby freshmen jump in terror and scurry away like frightened mice.

Enjin and Gris both chuckled. It was stereotypical, it was immature, and it was exactly how they functioned. "Shut up, Zodyl. You’re scaring the kids," Enjin joked, giving him a fist bump.

The hallway was a sea of their crew. Further down, Regto and Gountess Knock were having one of their "bromance" moments. Well, it wasn't really a bromance—everyone knew they were gay, and honestly, they were the most stable couple in the group. Regto had his arms wrapped around Gountess’s neck, pouting and clearly asking for a kiss. Gountess was laughing, leaning in like he was actually going to give it to him right there in front of the Dean’s office.

"Get a room, you losers!" Zodyl shouted, throwing a crumpled piece of paper at them.

Then, the "bad news" duo arrived. Bundus Begalkeit and Delmon Gates swaggered down the hall, looking like they had just rolled out of a street fight. Their uniforms were a disaster, ties hanging loose, shirts untucked, and jackets draped over their shoulders like capes.

"Hey, fuckers!" Bundus shouted, raising a hand.

But before he could finish his sentence, a Professor spawned out of a nearby classroom like a final boss in a video game. The old man adjusted his glasses and glared at them.

"Mr. Begalkeit! Mr. Gates! Fasten your buttons and tuck in those shirts or you’ll be spending your first afternoon in detention!"

Bundus and Delmon immediately froze, looking like kicked puppies as they started fumbling with their buttons. The rest of the boys doubled over laughing, watching the "tough guys" get humbled by a man who probably taught Medieval History.

9:20 AM. The crew settled into the lounge area outside the Calculus hall. They still had forty minutes before the nightmare starts. Zodyl pulled out a pack of cigarettes and looked around. "Anyone want to go out with me for a smoke? I need to prep my lungs for these derivatives."

"Nah, I'm good," Gris said.

"I’m trying to breathe today, thanks," Arkha added.

"Gross," Regto muttered, still leaning on Gountess.

Zodyl looked offended. He turned to Enjin, who just shook his head and giggled at the unanimous rejection. "Fine! Bundus, you’re coming with me." Bundus, always down for a bad idea, shrugged and followed him outside.

Enjin slumped into a plastic chair and pulled out his phone. His screen lit up with a notification.

Riyo [8:55 AM]

ENJIIIIINNNN!! 

I just posted! 

Go like it right now! 

And tell your friends to comment! 

Tell them to say I look like a queen! 

DO IT OR I’M TELLING MOM YOU DROVE 100MPH ON THE HIGHWAY.

Enjin rolled his eyes. "This girl is a menace." He didn't actually ask the boys to do it—he wasn't that much of a simp for his sister but he did reach over and snatch Gris’s phone.

"Hey! What are you doing?" Gris asked.

"Logging into your IG to like Riyo’s post so she stops texting me," Enjin said.

He opened Instagram on his phone too and went to his feed. He saw Riyo’s post, but right above it, a different photo caught his eye. It was a picture of Riyo and Amo at the mall, but the person who posted it had the username @thetamsy.

The caption read: "My pretty girls are such cuties <3"

Enjin cursed under his breath. He had planned to comment something similar to make Riyo happy, but someone had already beaten him to the punch. He tapped on the profile picture. It was a small, aesthetic shot of someone with long, pale hair.

"Pretty girl," Enjin muttered to himself. "Or a very high-fashion ghost."

Without thinking too much blame the sleep deprivation he hit the follow button. He wanted to see who this person was that Riyo kept talking about. He locked his phone and leaned his head back against the wall. "Calculus 2," he groaned. "I’m going to fail so hard."

10:00 AM. The lecture hall was cold and smelled like floor wax. Enjin took his usual spot—way in the back, near the corner, where the Professor’s voice sounded like a distant hum. This was Calculus 2. The land of pain.

The Professor, a man who looked like he hadn't smiled since the 1980s, started writing on the chalkboard immediately.

"Welcome back," the Professor droned. "This semester, we move beyond basic differentiation. We are diving into Integral Calculus. We will be discussing Techniques of Integration, Integration by Parts, and Trigonometric Substitution..."

Enjin felt his soul leaving his body. Integration by parts? It sounded like something you did to a car engine, but he knew there were no wrenches involved here. Just those symbols, the shift-solve in his scientific calculator, and a whole lot of confusion.

"We will also cover Applications of Integration," the Professor continued, his voice fading into the background of Enjin’s mind. "Finding the area between curves... volumes of solids of revolution... using the disk and washer methods..."

Enjin’s eyes began to flutter shut. Disk method? Sounds like a brake pad, he thought. He leaned his head on his hand, his cap shielding his eyes. The Professor’s voice became a rhythmic, soothing chant of math terms.

"...the fundamental theorem of calculus... evaluating the definite integral of …"

Enjin was out. He was dreaming of a matte-black car drifting through a sea of Greek symbols.

The Professor began the roll call.

"Rubion?"

"Here!" Gris shouted, way too loud.

"Typhon?"

"Yo!"

"Corvus?"

"Present."

The list went on and on. Enjin was dead to the world until the Professor reached the end of the list.

"Caines?"

Silence.

"Is there a 'Caines' in the room?" the Professor asked, looking over his spectacles.

Enjin shifted in his sleep, letting out a small, muffled snore. He heard the faint sound of footsteps. The Professor was walking up the aisle. Enjin felt a presence looming over him.

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

The Professor literally rapped his knuckles against the top of Enjin’s head. Enjin jumped, his hat flying off as he nearly fell out of his chair.

"Wh-what? I'm awake! The integral of uhmm you know is squared over two!" Enjin yelled, panicked.

The whole class erupted into laughter. Enjin’s face burned a deep crimson. But before he could even look at the Professor, the heavy oak doors at the front of the hall creaked open.

"Sorry I’m late," a voice said.

It was soft, calm, and had a weirdly melodic quality to it.

Enjin rubbed his eyes, still trying to figure out where he was. He didn't look up immediately. He was too busy cursing "Caines"—whoever that was—for making the Professor walk back here and wake him up. Stupid Caines. Probably some nerd who can't read a watch, Enjin thought bitterly.

"Are you Caines?" the Professor asked, his tone shifting from annoyed to curious.

"Yes, sir. Tamsy Caines," the boy replied.

Enjin’s head snapped up.

Everything in the room seemed to stop. The flickering fluorescent lights, the scratching of pens on paper, the distant sound of traffic outside it all faded away.

Walking down the aisle toward the only empty seat which happened to be two rows in front of Enjin—was the ghost from the Instagram profile.

He was wearing a sweater that looked like it was made of clouds, oversized and falling off one shoulder. But it was the hair that did it. It was white not "old person" white, but like spun silk or moonlight. It looked so soft that Enjin’s fingers actually twitched with the urge to touch it.

Tamsy Caines looked like an "aesthetic" Pinterest board come to life. He sat down, his movements graceful and slow, and as he passed Enjin’s row, a faint scent drifted through the air.

Vanilla. And something like sea salt.

Enjin stared at the back of that white head, his heart suddenly doing a "disk and washer method" inside his chest. His brain, which had been struggling to remember the power rule for integration, completely short-circuited.

"Fuck," Enjin whispered to himself, but for the first time in his life, he didn't mean it as an insult. He meant it as a warning. Because he realized right then and there, looking at the high-fashion ghost in front of him, that Calculus 2 was going to be the least of his problems this year.

There is a specific kind of torture reserved for people who think they are too cool to care, but suddenly find themselves caring way too much. It’s called the “Requested” button.

Enjin sat in the back of the lecture hall, staring at his phone screen until the light dimmed and went black. He’d done it. He had actually tapped the blue button on @thetamsy’s profile. And now, instead of the satisfying ‘Following’ checkmark, he was staring at the word ‘Requested.’ It was a digital waiting room. A purgatory.

"What is he, the Pope?" Enjin muttered, shoving his phone into his hoodie pocket. "It’s just Instagram. It’s not that deep."

But it was deep. It was deep because Enjin K. did not "request" people. Usually, people requested him. He was the guy with the cool car, the fast lap times, and the effortless "jock who doesn't try" energy. Being kept on hold by a guy who looked like he’d melt if he touched engine oil was a massive blow to his ego.

The transition from the cold Calculus hall to the humid heat of the soccer field usually helped Enjin clear his head. Usually, when he stepped onto the grass, his brain switched to "Standard Shift"—pure instinct, pure movement.

Not today.

"Enjin! Watch the line!" Gris yelled from across the field.

Enjin snapped his head up just as a ball whizzed past his ear. He hadn't even seen it coming. Why? Because for the last thirty seconds, he’d been wondering if Tamsy Caines was the type of person who ignored notifications on purpose to look busy, or if he just genuinely didn't check his phone.

Maybe he has a private account because he’s famous? No, Riyo said he’s just 'cool.' Maybe his phone is dead? Yeah, people with white hair probably forget to charge their phones.

"Bro, you’re playing like a literal turtle today," Gris said, jogging over during the water break. He wiped sweat from his forehead and looked at Enjin suspiciously. "You’ve checked your gym bag four times since we started. You expecting a call from the scouts or something?"

"Shut up, Gris. I’m just... checking the time," Enjin lied.

"We have a giant digital scoreboard right there, man," Gris pointed out, deadpan. "It says 4:15. You know, the same time it was two minutes ago when you checked."

Enjin ignored him and walked over to his bag. He unzipped the small pocket, fished out his phone, and tapped the screen with a trembling thumb.

Instagram • 1m ZodylTyphon liked your story.

"Useless," Enjin hissed. He swiped the notification away. 

Still no ‘thetamsy started following you.’ Still no ‘thetamsy accepted your request.’

He felt a weird, prickly heat climbing up his neck that had nothing to do with the sun. It was pettiness. Pure, unadulterated pettiness. He began a mental list of all the reasons why Tamsy Caines was probably a loser anyway.

1. He was late to class.
2. His hair probably takes three hours to dry.
3. He wears silk in a room full of wooden desks.

"I'm over it," Enjin told himself, throwing his phone back into the bag. "I'm literally deleting the request if he doesn't accept by dinner."

But, He was lying. He was going to check it again in exactly one hundred and twenty seconds.

6:30 PM. Dinner at the Pit Stop—the local diner where the crew gathered after practice was usually the highlight of Enjin’s day. It was loud, smelled like deep-fryer grease, and was the only place where Delmon Gates and Bundus Begalkeit could argue about car parts without getting kicked out.

Enjin sat in the corner booth, a double bacon cheeseburger sitting untouched in front of him.

"Yo, Enj, you gonna eat that or are you waiting for it to give you a lap dance?" Zodyl asked, reaching for one of Enjin’s fries.

Enjin swatted his hand away on autopilot. His phone was sitting face-down on the table right next to his ketchup cup. He was trying a new tactic: The Silent Treatment. He figured if he didn't look at the phone, the universe would reward his patience by granting him access to the "High-Fashion Ghost’s" private life.

It didn't work.

Five minutes passed. Enjin’s leg was bouncing under the table like a piston at redline. He couldn't take it. He grabbed the phone, shielding the screen from the boys, and refreshed his activity tab.

Nothing.

"Who are you stalking?" Regto asked, leaning over Gountess’s shoulder with a mischievous smirk. "You’ve got that 'I’m about to commit a felony' look in your eyes."

"I'm not stalking anyone," Enjin snapped, locking his phone and shoving it into his lap. "I'm just waiting for a... a part. For the car. A vintage intake manifold. The guy is being a jerk about the price."

"A vintage intake manifold has an Instagram?" Gountess asked, raising an eyebrow. "Because I definitely saw the purple gradient of the IG app on your screen, bro."

The table erupted in "Oooohs" and whistles.

"Is it a girl? Is it that girl from the mall?" Gountess shouted, hitting the table. "The one with the white hair?"

Enjin felt his ears turn red. "It’s not a girl. And it’s not a big deal. Eat your tater tots, Gountess."

He took a massive, aggressive bite of his burger just to stop himself from talking. He chewed slowly, staring out the window at the parking lot. He was being so petty it was actually starting to hurt his own feelings. He was Enjin K.! He drove the Red 08! He shouldn't be sitting in a booth, hiding his phone like a middle-schooler with a crush.

But that was the problem. It wasn't a crush. It was an obsession with the mystery. How could someone walk into a Calculus class looking like a literal angel and then just... not exist on the internet for him?

9:00 PM. Enjin was back in his room, the only light coming from the glow of his phone screen. He was lying on his back, legs kicked up against the wall, scrolling through Tamsy’s follower list—the only thing he could actually see.

"Okay, so he follows Riyo. He follows Amo. He follows... wait, he follows a cat café in Seoul?" Enjin whispered to the empty room. "This guy is a riddle wrapped in a silk sweater."

He tapped the 'Requested' button. He considered hitting it again to cancel it, then re-requesting it so it would pop up at the top of Tamsy’s notifications.

No, that’s too thirsty, he thought. But what if he just missed it? What if he has so many followers that my name got buried?

He went back to Tamsy’s profile and stared at the profile picture again. Up close, Tamsy’s eyes looked... different. They weren't just dark, they had this weird, sleepy confidence to them. Like he knew exactly how much of a mess he was making in Enjin’s head without even trying.

Enjin let out a frustrated groan and tossed his phone onto the pile of dirty laundry at the foot of his bed.

"I'm done. I'm actually done. If he doesn't accept it by tomorrow morning, I'm unfollowing. I'll just ignore him in class. I'll be the coldest guy he’s ever met. He’ll walk in with his vanilla scent and I’ll just... I’ll sneeze. Yeah. I’ll act like I’m allergic to him."

He turned off his bedside lamp and closed his eyes.

11:45 PM. Enjin’s hand reached out into the darkness, fumbling for his phone on the floor. He found it, the screen blinding him for a second. He opened Instagram.

Status: Requested.

"I hate this school," Enjin whispered, rolling over and pulling the blanket over his head.

He was trapped in the pending purgatory, and for the first time in his life, Enjin K. realized he wasn't the one in the driver's seat.  His last thought before falling into a restless sleep was about that white hair. He wondered if it felt as soft as it looked. Then he got annoyed at himself for wondering.

Just who is he?, he thought. This is because of that Fucking Calculus.

Enjin was a man of logic. Or at least, he liked to tell himself that. But, by the time Wednesday morning rolled around, his logic had been replaced by a very specific, very aggressive type of pettiness.

He had spent exactly forty-eight hours in "Pending Purgatory." Forty-eight hours of checking his phone during sets at the gym, under the table during breakfast, and even while he was brushing his teeth. Tamsy Caines still hadn't accepted the follow. It was a digital slap in the face.

"I’m going to be a ghost," Enjin told his reflection as he adjusted his black hoodie. "He wants to act like I don't exist? Fine. I’ll show him what 'invisible' actually looks like."

The plan was simple: The Hallway Walk-By. Enjin knew Tamsy’s schedule now. Thanks to Riyo’s constant yapping, he knew Tamsy usually hung out by the lockers near the art wing before Calculus. Enjin gathered his crew Gris, Zodyl, Gountess, Regto, and Arkha and led them down that specific hallway like they were a SWAT team.

"Why are we taking the long way to class?" Zodyl asked, swinging his bag around. "The vending machine in this wing is always broken."

"I just felt like walking, Zodyl. Exercise is good for you," Enjin snapped, his eyes scanning the crowd like a predator.

And then, he saw him.

Tamsy was leaning against a locker, surrounded by a group of girls who looked like they were auditioning for a high-fashion magazine. Tamsy looked even more "bratty" in person than on Instagram. He was wearing a cropped knit sweater and black slacks that looked tailored to his exact measurements. He was holding a small, silver thermos in one hand and his phone in the other.

"Okay, look natural," Enjin whispered to Gris.

"Look natural? We’re walking down a hallway, Eight. It’s not a runway," Gris muttered, but he straightened his posture anyway.

As they got closer, Enjin put on his best "I’m a cool, mysterious racer" face. He slowed his pace. He made sure his heavy combat boots made a loud, rhythmic thud on the linoleum. He was waiting for Tamsy to look up, to see the "Requested" guy in the flesh, and to realize he’d made a mistake by keeping him waiting.

They were three feet away. Two feet.

Enjin looked directly at Tamsy. He even did that slight chin-tilt—the universal bro-signal for 'I see you.'

Tamsy didn't look up nor even blink. He was busy pouting at his phone screen, showing something to a girl next to him. "Ugh, look at this," Tamsy’s voice drifted over, smooth and annoying. "The lighting in the cafe was so yellow. It ruined the whole aesthetic. I literally can't post this."

Enjin walked right past him. He waited for a "Hey" or a "Wait, aren't you Riyo’s brother?"

But, nothing happened.

Tamsy treated Enjin like he was a part of the wallpaper. Like he was just another random jock in a hoodie. Enjin felt his ego shatter into a million little pieces. He kept walking until they reached the end of the hall, his heart thumping with pure, unadulterated rage.

"Did you see that?" Enjin hissed once they were out of earshot.

"See what? The art project with the clay ducks?" Regto asked.

"No! That... that white-haired brat! He looked right through me!"

Gris stopped walking and looked at Enjin with genuine concern. "Bro. He didn't look through you. He didn't look at you at all. He was talking about lighting, man. You’re spiraling. You’re literally spiraling over a guy who probably thinks 'Calculus' is a type of skincare."

"I am not spiraling!" Enjin shouted, causing a nearby freshman to drop their binder. He lowered his voice. "I’m just... I’m offended on behalf of my family. He’s Riyo’s friend. It’s a respect thing."

"Sure, Eight. Whatever helps you sleep at night," Gris said, patting him on the back.

10:00 AM. Calculus Hall. Enjin sat in his usual back-row seat, fuming. He pulled out his phone. He went to Tamsy’s profile.

Status: Requested.

"That’s it," Enjin whispered. He was about to hit the button to cancel the request when the doors opened.

Tamsy walked in, trailing that same vanilla and sea salt scent. He didn't go to his seat immediately. Instead, he walked toward the Professor’s desk, his boots clicking softly.

"Sir?" Tamsy said, leaning over the desk. "The light in my row is flickering. It’s giving me a headache. Can I sit somewhere else? Preferably somewhere with... comfy vibes?"

The Professor, a man who survived three wars and forty years of teaching, looked at Tamsy like he was a glitch in the universe. "Mr. Caines, it’s a math class, not a photo shoot. Sit anywhere that isn't the floor."

Tamsy sighed a long, dramatic, "life is so hard" sigh and turned around. His eyes swept over the room. For a split second, his gaze landed on Enjin.

Enjin froze. He stopped breathing. He waited for the recognition. He waited for Tamsy to realize this was the guy he’d been ignoring.

Tamsy’s eyes stayed on Enjin for exactly one second. Then, he wrinkled his nose, just a tiny bit, like he’d smelled something slightly off. He turned his head and sat down four rows away, pulling out a tablet with a custom marble-patterned cover.

Enjin’s jaw dropped. Did he just... did he just 'ew' me with his eyes?

The lecture started. The Professor began writing on the board.

"Integration by parts," the Professor droned. "We choose this based on the LIATE rule: Logarithmic, Inverse trigonometric, Algebraic, Trigonometric, Exponential..."

Enjin couldn't focus. He was staring at the back of Tamsy’s white head. Tamsy wasn't even taking notes. He was currently using a stylus to draw little stars on his digital syllabus.

He’s such a brat, Enjin thought, his grip tightening on his pen. He thinks he’s so special. He thinks he can just exist and everyone will bow down to him. Well, not me. I’m Enjin K. I don't care about 'vibes.' I care about horsepower.

He looked down at his notebook. Instead of writing the formula for the integral on the board, he had written the word PENDING in giant, angry block letters.

"What’s with Riyo’s friend," Enjin muttered, tearing the page out and crumpling it into a ball.

He was going to ignore Tamsy Caines for the rest of his life. He was going to be so cold that Tamsy would need a heater just to stand near him. He was going to—

Buzz.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. Enjin reached for it, thinking it was Gris.

Instagram • Now

thetamsy accepted your follow request.

Enjin’s heart did a backflip. He nearly dropped the phone.

Instagram • Now

thetamsy started following you.

Enjin stared at the screen. He felt a wave of triumph wash over him, followed immediately by a wave of confusion. Why now? Why after ignoring me in the hall?

He looked up at Tamsy. The white-haired boy was still drawing stars, but he had a tiny, almost invisible smirk on his face. He didn't turn around. He didn't look back. He just sat there, looking pretty and expensive, knowing exactly what he’d just done.

Enjin leaned back in his chair, a slow, dangerous grin spreading across his face. "Okay, Ghost," he whispered. "Game on."

The air at the docks always tasted like salt and high-octane gasoline. It was midnight the time when the "straight-edge" students of Saint Akuta’s were tucked into their dorms, and the real kings of the city came out to play.

Enjin stood leaning against the hood of the Red 08. This wasn't the silver SUV he used to haul Riyo’s shopping bags. This was a monster. The matte-red paint job looked like dried blood under the flickering yellow streetlights. Every line of the car was aggressive, built for speed, and currently, Enjin looked just as dangerous as the machine behind him.

He had his racing suit tied around his waist, leaving him in a tight, black ribbed tank top that showed off the grease-smudged muscles of his arms. He looked hot in that effortless, messy way, hair windswept, a smear of oil on his jawline, and eyes that were focused on nothing but the black asphalt ahead.

"Yo, Eight! Delmon is talking big again," Gris said, walking up while snapping his leather gloves on. "He says his new turbo setup is going to leave you in the harbor."

Enjin didn't even look up. He was busy tightening the lug nuts on his front wheel. "Delmon talks because his car can't. Let him bark. I’ll show him the taillights."

The crowd was thick. Modified cars lined the pier, their neon underglow reflecting off the dark water. The music was loud enough to vibrate in your chest. Enjin climbed into the driver's seat, the roll cage clicking as he buckled his four-point harness. He felt at home here. No Calculus, no "Pending" requests, no sister, just the steering wheel and the redline.

He was about to pull up to the starting line when he saw a flash of white in the crowd.

It was impossible to miss. In a sea of dark hoodies and grease-stained jeans, Tamsy stood out like a diamond in a coal mine. He was leaning against a concrete pillar, looking completely bored. He was wearing an oversized, cream-colored racing jacket way too expensive for a dusty pier and holding a lollipop in one hand.

Enjin’s heart did a weird stutter-step. What is he doing here?

As Enjin rolled the Red 08 past him toward the line, Tamsy slowly took the lollipop out of his mouth. He didn't cheer. He didn't wave. He just looked at Enjin, his eyes scanning the car with a judgmental squint. He leaned over to a girl next to him and mouthed, "It’s so loud," while dramatically covering one ear with a manicured hand.

"Brat," Enjin whispered, a smirk tugging at his lips. He gripped the steering wheel harder. If Tamsy thought the car was loud now, he was going to hate what happened when the light turned green.

THE RACE. Delmon Gates pulled up in his lime-green Nissan. He revved his engine, the sound piercing and high-pitched. Enjin responded with a deep, guttural roar from the Red 08 that made the ground shake.

Gris stepped between the cars, holding a flashlight high. Enjin’s world narrowed down to the dashboard. Everything was math now, but not the boring kind from class. This was physics.

Force equals mass times acceleration. He knew exactly how much force to put on the pedal to keep the tires from spinning.

The light flashed.

GO.

Enjin launched. The G-force slammed him back into his seat, his muscles tensing as he fought the steering wheel. He shifted into second, clean, then third. The world outside the window became a blur of grey and neon. Delmon was neck-and-neck, the green car a ghost in his peripheral vision.

They hit the first turn. Most drivers would brake. Enjin shifted down, yanked the handbrake, and felt the back end of the Red 08 kick out. It was a perfect drift, a dance on the edge of disaster. Smoke filled the air, the smell of burning rubber better than any perfume.

As he swung the car around the apex of the turn, he glanced at the crowd. For a split second, he saw Tamsy. The "brat" wasn't looking bored anymore. He was standing on his tiptoes, his hand gripping the railing, his eyes wide as he watched the red car slide past him.

Enjin slammed the gear into fourth. Eat my dust, Ghost.

He crossed the finish line three car-lengths ahead of Delmon. The crowd went insane.

Enjin hopped out of the car, his skin buzzing with adrenaline. He was sweating, his tank top clinging to his chest, looking every bit the champion. The boys—Zodyl, Arkha, and the rest—raced over to pour beer on his head and scream about the drift.

"That was disgusting, Enjin! You almost hit the pier!" Zodyl yelled, laughing.

Enjin laughed, wiping water from his eyes. He felt invincible. He looked around, searching for that white hair again. He found it.

Tamsy was walking toward the car, stepping carefully over the oil patches on the ground like he was navigating a minefield. He stopped five feet away, looking at the Red 08 with a frown.

"You're late," Enjin said, leaning against the door, his voice low and cocky. "The race ended two minutes ago."

Tamsy looked up at him, his gaze lingering on Enjin’s damp hair and the way his tank top showed off his shoulders. Tamsy’s expression didn't soften. Instead, he wrinkled his nose and pulled a silk handkerchief out of his pocket.

"You're covered in grease," Tamsy said, his tone incredibly bratty. "And your car smells like a literal dumpster fire. Do you always try this hard to be loud? It's honestly kind of embarrassing."

The "Pit Stop" crew went silent. No one talked to Enjin like that. Not here.

Enjin’s eyes darkened, but he didn't get angry. He stepped closer, entering Tamsy’s personal space. He could smell it now—that vanilla and sea salt. It was so out of place here.

"It’s called an engine, Caines. It’s supposed to be loud," Enjin said, his voice dropping an octave. "Maybe if you spent less time worrying about your 'aesthetic' and more time watching the track, you’d understand why people actually like it."

Tamsy rolled his eyes, looking Enjin up and down with a dismissive smirk. "I saw the drift. It was... okay. A bit desperate for attention, don't you think?" He turned on his heel, his expensive jacket swaying. "Anyway, your sister wants you to bring home milk. Don't forget. And try to wash your face, you look like a coal miner."

"I'm not your errand boy!" Enjin shouted after him, but Tamsy just waved a hand over his shoulder without looking back.

Enjin stood there, heart still racing, not from the cars, but from the sheer audacity of the boy in the white hair.

"Did he just... did he just call me a coal miner?" Enjin asked, turning to Gris.

Gris was trying so hard not to laugh he was turning purple. "He did, bro. And he also just told you to buy milk. You’re definitely in his 'Requested' list now, but I don't think you’re the one driving."

Enjin looked at the milk-white hair disappearing into the crowd. He was petty, he was ego-bruised, and he was officially, 100% obsessed.

"We'll see about that," Enjin whispered, a dangerous glint in his eyes. "We'll see who's driving who."

The "Secret Bunker" was Enjin’s sanctuary. It was a massive, concrete basement hidden under an abandoned textile warehouse on the edge of the city. It was the only place where he could be himself, where the smell of iron and old oil was thicker than oxygen, and where his tools were organized better than his life.

He had spent the last four hours after the race scrubbing the "coal miner" look off his face and fine-tuning the Red 08’s suspension. He was still fuming. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Tamsy’s judgmental little nose wrinkle.

"Bratty, white-haired, silk-wearing..." Enjin muttered, sliding out from under the car on a creeper. "I should have splashed some puddle water on his jacket. See how his 'aesthetic' handles a mud stain."

He stood up, wiping his hands on a rag, ready to lock up and finally get some sleep. But then, he heard it.

Clack. Clack. Clack.

The sound of expensive heels hitting the concrete ramp.

Enjin froze. No one knew about this place except Gris and the crew, and they all wore sneakers. He grabbed a heavy wrench from his workbench, his pulse quickening. If it was a rival crew or the cops, he was ready to scrap.

"I told you the lighting in here was atrocious, mother," a familiar, bored voice echoed through the high ceilings. "It smells like a mechanic’s armpit. I don’t know why we haven’t sold this dump to a parking lot developer yet."

Enjin’s heart stopped. No way.

Walking into the light of his workspace was Tamsy Caines. He wasn't in his racing jacket anymore. He was wearing a silk robe-style wrap over black leggings, looking like he’d just stepped out of a spa. He was holding a tablet, tapping on the screen with a look of pure disgust.

"You!" Enjin yelled, dropping the rag. "What the hell are you doing in my bunker?"

Tamsy stopped. He looked up, his pale eyes blinking slowly as they landed on Enjin. A slow, mischievous smirk spread across his face, the kind of look a cat gives a mouse right before it decides to play.

"Oh," Tamsy purred, leaning his hip against a concrete pillar. "Look who it is. The coal miner."

"Get out," Enjin stepped forward, his chest heaving. He was a foot taller and twice as broad, and he wanted nothing more than to pick this brat up and toss him out the bay door. "This is private property. How did you even get past the gate?"

Tamsy didn't look scared. In fact, he looked like he was enjoying himself. He held up a set of gold-plated keys. "The gate? You mean my gate? Darling... did you really think this warehouse was abandoned?"

Enjin blinked. "What?"

"My family owns the Caines Development Group," Tamsy said, his tone dripping with bratty superiority. "We own this block. We own this warehouse. And technically..." He stepped closer, his vanilla scent invading the smell of gasoline. He reached out and tapped a manicured finger against the hood of the Red 08. "...I own this bunker. Which means I own your little hideout."

Enjin felt like he’d been hit by a freight train. His sanctuary. His secret. It belonged to the guy who called him a dumpster fire.

"I pay rent," Enjin growled, though his voice lacked conviction. "I pay the guy at the front—"

"You pay the old janitor who lives in the shack," Tamsy interrupted, rolling his eyes. "He’s been pocketing your money for a year. I found out yesterday when I was looking through the property taxes. I was going to call the police and have this 'red junk' towed to the scrapyard."

Enjin’s vision went red. He stepped into Tamsy’s space, looming over him. He wanted to fight. He wanted to grab Tamsy by the collar of that expensive robe and tell him exactly what he could do with his property taxes. His muscles tensed, his knuckles white around the wrench.

"You touch this car," Enjin whispered, his voice vibrating with rage, "and I don't care who your family is. I will make sure you regret it."

Tamsy didn't flinch. He actually leaned in closer, his face inches from Enjin’s. He looked at Enjin’s angry eyes, then down at his tensed jaw. He looked like he was bored by the threat.

"So aggressive," Tamsy whispered. "So... loud. But you're in no position to make threats, Number 08. I have the eviction papers on my tablet right now. One tap, and your precious car is on a tow truck."

Enjin’s heart hammered against his ribs. He was resisting the urge to just scream. He was a man of pride, a king of the streets, but Tamsy had him by the throat. If he lost this bunker, he lost everything.

"What do you want?" Enjin spat out, the words tasting like ash.

Tamsy’s smirk grew wider. He liked this—the feeling of the big, tough racer being forced to surrender. He tucked his tablet under his arm and tilted his head.

"I need a driver," Tamsy said. "My mother took away my license because I 'drove too fast' in her Mercedes. I have a lot of events this month. High-fashion parties, gallery openings... places where I can't be seen arriving in a taxi."

"Get one of your friends to do it," Enjin growled.

"My friends don't drive like you," Tamsy said, his eyes flicking to the Red 08. "And besides... I like the idea of a 'champion' being my personal servant. It fits my aesthetic."

Enjin wanted to say no. He wanted to tell Tamsy to go to hell. He felt his pride screaming at him to walk away. But then he looked at his car. He looked at the tools he’d spent years collecting.

It’s just once, Enjin told himself. Just one month. I’ll be his driver, keep the bunker, and then I’m done. I’m just doing this to save the car. It’s not because I’m losing. It’s a strategic retreat.

"Fine," Enjin muttered, his voice low and defeated. "I'll do it. But only until the end of the semester. And you stay away from my tools."

Tamsy clapped his hands together, a bright, bratty sound. "Wonderful! I knew you were smart enough to see the logic. You start tomorrow. 7:00 AM. And Enjin?"

Enjin looked up, looking like he wanted to bite Tamsy’s head off. "What?"

Tamsy looked him up and down, a look of pure mischief in his eyes. "Wear something that doesn't smell like a garage. You're a chauffeur now. Try to look the part."

Tamsy turned and walked away, his silk robe fluttering behind him.

Enjin stood in the middle of his bunker, alone with his car. He let out a long, frustrated scream that echoed off the concrete walls. He slammed his wrench onto the workbench, the metal clanging loudly.

"Just once," he whispered to the empty room, trying to convince himself. "I'm just doing this for the car. I’m not under his thumb. I’m not."

But deep down, as the scent of vanilla lingered in his sanctuary, Enjin K. knew he was in serious trouble. 

6:55 AM. Enjin was currently parked in front of the Caines mansion, and he was ninety percent sure his soul had already left his body. He was sitting in the silver SUV—the "daily driver"—feeling like a total fraud. He’d tried his best to look "professional," which to Enjin meant wearing his only black hoodie that didn't have a grease stain and a pair of jeans that weren't frayed at the bottom.

"I’m a racer," he whispered, gripping the steering wheel so hard the plastic groaned. "I’m a legend. I am not a servant. I am a strategic businessman protecting his assets."

At exactly 7:00 AM, the massive mahogany front doors of the mansion swung open. Tamsy stepped out, and for a second, Enjin actually forgot how to breathe. Tamsy was wearing a baby-blue cashmere sweater that looked softer than a cloud and white slacks that were so bright they practically glowed in the morning sun. He was carrying a small, structured bag and looking at the SUV like it was a pile of trash that had accidentally rolled onto his driveway.

Tamsy walked to the passenger side, but he didn't open the door. He just stood there, staring through the glass.

Enjin rolled down the window. "What? Get in. We’re going to be late for whatever 'high-fashion' breakfast you planned."

Tamsy wrinkled his nose, his voice coming out in that signature bratty lilt. "Are you joking? I’m supposed to sit in that? Enjin, there is a literal fast-food bag on the floorboard. I can see it from here. It’s... traumatic."

"It’s a car, Tamsy! It has four wheels and an engine. It gets you from point A to point B," Enjin snapped, leaning across to shove the crumpled bag into the backseat. "Get in before I leave you here and let you walk in those dainty little shoes."

"They’re Prada, you barbarian," Tamsy huffed. He opened the door with two fingers, as if touching the handle might give him a disease. He sat down, but he didn't pull his legs in immediately. He just stared at the seat. "Is this grey fabric? Do you know what this will do to my cashmere? I’ll be covered in... peasant lint."

"Peasant lint?" Enjin’s jaw dropped. He turned in his seat, ready to go off. "Listen here, you little ghost. This 'peasant wagon' has a five-star safety rating and a better sound system than your house. If you don't like it, you can take the bus. Oh wait, you can't, because you’re too 'aesthetic' for public transport."

"You're being very loud for seven in the morning," Tamsy said, finally pulling his legs in and slamming the door. He pulled out a small bottle of hand sanitizer and began aggressively cleaning his palms. "And you smell like... is that cheap peppermint gum and laundry detergent? It’s very middle-class. I find it distracting."

"I'll show you distracting!" Enjin roared, shifting the car into gear so violently the transmission winced. "I am doing you a favor! I am saving your social life! You should be thanking me, not judging my scent profile!"

"You're not doing me a favor, you're paying rent," Tamsy reminded him, his eyes fixed on his reflection in the sun visor mirror. He began adjusting his white hair, strand by strand. "Now, drive. I’m hungry, and if my blood sugar drops, I become very, very difficult."

"You're already difficult!" Enjin yelled, peeling out of the driveway.

For the next ten minutes, it was a war of words. Enjin argued about the route; Tamsy argued about the air conditioning. Enjin complained about the "girly" pop music Tamsy forced him to play; Tamsy complained that Enjin’s driving was "too jerky" and was going to ruin his latte-drinking posture.

"You drive like you're trying to escape a crime scene," Tamsy complained, clutching the grab handle. "Can't you just... glide? Like a normal person?"

"I don't 'glide.' I drive. There’s a difference," Enjin shot back. "And if you say one more word about my suspension, I’m going to take the next speed bump at forty miles per hour."

"You wouldn't dare. You'd break your own precious 'wagon,'" Tamsy smirked.

"Try me, Caines. Try me."

They pulled up to a red light. Enjin was ready for the next round. He had a perfect comeback lined up about how Tamsy’s sweater made him look like a very expensive marshmallow. He turned to Tamsy, mouth open, ready to fire.

But Tamsy wasn't looking at him.

Tamsy had stopped talking. He was just sitting there, staring out the side window at a small flower shop on the corner. The bratty smirk was gone. His expression had gone completely neutral—blank, quiet, and strangely soft. He looked like a porcelain doll that had just run out of batteries.

The silence was sudden. It was heavy. It was the kind of silence that made Enjin feel like he was the one being loud and annoying for no reason.

"What?" Enjin asked, his voice losing its edge. "Why are you quiet all of a sudden? You making a list of more things to complain about?"

Tamsy didn't turn his head. He just sat there in that elegant, freezing silence. He didn't even blink. It was like he had just checked out of the conversation entirely, leaving Enjin shouting at a wall.

Enjin looked at the light. It turned green. He looked back at Tamsy.

"Fine," Enjin muttered, his shoulders dropping. The fight had left him. "Where do you want to go? And don't say the mall, I've had enough of that place."

Tamsy finally turned his head. He didn't say anything. He just pointed a slim, pale finger toward a high-end, glass-fronted bistro called 'The Gilded Lily' down the street.

Enjin stared at the bistro. It looked like the kind of place where a glass of water cost twelve dollars and you had to wear a tie just to look at the menu. Every "standard guy" instinct in Enjin’s body was screaming NO.

"I'm not going in there, Tamsy. I look like I just woke up in a garage. I’ll look like the guy who delivers the eggs."

Tamsy didn't argue. He didn't sass him back. He just kept staring at Enjin with those big, calm, pale eyes. Total silence. He just waited, knowing exactly how this was going to end.

Enjin held out for five seconds. Ten.

"God, I hate you," Enjin hissed, his blinker clicking as he turned into the bistro's valet lane. "Just once, okay? We’re getting coffee and we’re leaving. I’m not sitting through a three-course brunch with people who use tiny forks."

Tamsy’s bratty smirk slowly returned, like a cat that had just been handed a bowl of cream. He reached over and patted Enjin’s arm with a light, teasing touch.

"Good boy, Enjin. See? I knew you could glide if you tried."

Enjin wanted to scream. He wanted to fight. But as he hopped out to open Tamsy’s door because Tamsy refused to touch the "dirty" valet curb himself, he realized he was already losing.

It’s just for the car, Enjin reminded himself, his face burning with a mix of anger and something he refused to name. I’m just protecting the Red 08. I am not... I am definitely not his 'good boy.'

But as he followed the white-haired ghost into the fancy bistro, smelling the vanilla scent and feeling the eyes of the high-society crowd on his hoodie, Enjin knew one thing for sure: He was under Tamsy Caines’s thumb, and the brat knew it.

Enjin felt like a giant, grease-stained thumb in a room full of diamonds. The Gilded Lily was exactly what he expected: white marble floors, gold-leaf ceilings, and a crowd of people who probably used hundred-dollar bills as napkins.

He was currently slumped in a velvet chair that felt too soft to be legal, wearing his oversized black hoodie and looking like he was about to start a protest. Across from him, Tamsy sat perfectly upright, looking like he had been born in this very chair.

"I'm leaving," Enjin whispered, leaning across the table. "The waiter looked at my sneakers and almost called the health department. I’m out."

"Sit down, Enjin," Tamsy said without looking up from the menu. "You’re my driver. You stay where I can see you. Besides, you look... rugged. It’s a contrast. Think of yourself as a piece of performance art."

"I'll perform a 'get-out-of-this-chair' act in a second," Enjin growled.

But then the waiter arrived, and Enjin’s "mad" mode shifted into "guardian" mode by pure reflex. Tamsy began to order, and it was a disaster.

"I’ll have the poached eggs, but I want the yolks to be exactly 63 degrees," Tamsy said, his voice airy and bratty. "And the toast must be sourdough, but only toasted on one side. If the butter is salted, I’ll send it back. Also, for my tea, I need three ice cubes—not two, not four. If there are four, the temperature drops too quickly and the tannins get bitter."

The waiter blinked, his pen hovering over the notepad. He looked at Tamsy like he was a difficult puzzle. Enjin saw the waiter’s jaw tighten, a look of "I’m about to spit in this kid's tea" crossing his face.

Enjin’s eyes narrowed. He was mad at Tamsy, sure. He wanted to shake the kid. But seeing someone else look at his brat with judgment? That didn't sit right.

Enjin reached out and snatched the menu from Tamsy’s hand. "He’ll have the eggs, normal. Sourdough, lightly toasted. And a pot of Earl Grey with a side of ice. I'll handle the ice cubes myself." He gave the waiter a look that said 'Walk away before I forget I’m in a five-star restaurant.'

The waiter scurried off.

"You're so bossy," Tamsy huffed, crossing his arms. "I like my eggs a certain way, Enjin. It’s called having standards."

"It’s called being a pain in the neck," Enjin snapped. He was fuming, his face red, but his hands were busy. He reached over and moved Tamsy’s silver fork three inches to the left. "And sit back. You're going to knock your water over with your sleeve. You're a mess."

"I am not a mess. I am an icon," Tamsy countered, but he actually sat back, letting Enjin rearrange the table setting for him.

When the food arrived, Enjin spent the first five minutes making sure everything was "Tamsy-proof." He checked the toast (it was fine), and he literally counted the ice cubes into Tamsy’s tea with a spoon. One. Two. Three.

"There. Happy?" Enjin grumbled, shoving the tea toward him.

Tamsy took a sip, his pale eyes watching Enjin over the rim of the cup. He looked quiet again. That freezing, elegant silence that always made Enjin’s heart do a weird kick-flip.

"You're very good at this," Tamsy said softly. "Taking care of things. Is that why you're so good at racing? Because you're obsessed with the details?"

Enjin stiffened. "I'm not obsessed. I just don't like things being broken. Especially engines. Or... tea."

Tamsy set the cup down. He leaned forward, a playful, bratty glint returning to his eyes. He pulled his tablet from his bag and slid it across the table toward Enjin.

"Then explain this," Tamsy said.

Enjin looked down. His heart nearly stopped. On the screen was a grainy, high-speed video from the midnight circuit. It was the race from two weeks ago—the one where Enjin had pulled a near-impossible 360-entry drift into a narrow alley. The camera was shaky, but the Red 08 was unmistakable.

"Where did you get this?" Enjin hissed, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "This is private. This is illegal."

"It’s on a private forum," Tamsy said, leaning his chin on his hand. "Riyo showed me the link, but I’ve been watching the archives. You’re actually quite famous, Number 08. They call you the 'Red Ghost.'"

Enjin felt a weird mix of pride and pure panic. "Riyo is dead. I'm going to kill her."

"Don't bother. I've already saved all the videos," Tamsy smirked. He tapped the screen, pausing on a shot of Enjin standing by his car, looking hot, sweaty, and triumphant. "You look so different there. Not like a 'good boy' driver. You look... like you actually own the world."

Enjin stared at the photo. He looked at Tamsy. The brat was watching him with an expression that wasn't bored anymore. It was curious. Almost admiring.

"Why are you watching them?" Enjin asked, his voice rough.

Tamsy didn't answer for a moment. He just looked at the ice cubes melting in his tea. "Because," Tamsy said, his bratty tone coming back to hide the vulnerability. "Everything in my life is so... curated. So quiet. Watching you drive is the only thing that feels like it’s actually moving."

He suddenly pulled the tablet back, his face going neutral. "Also, you took the corner too wide at the three-minute mark. It was sloppy. I expect better from my chauffeur."

Enjin’s jaw dropped. He was mad, furious, even, but he couldn't help the small grin that touched his lips. "Sloppy? I was doing 110 on a wet road, Caines. I’d like to see you even turn the key."

"I don't turn keys. I have people for that," Tamsy said, picking up his fork. "Now, cut my toast. The crust is too hard for my knife."

Enjin let out a long, loud groan of pure frustration. He was being treated like a servant again. He was being insulted. He was being "under" Tamsy's thumb.

"I hate you. I actually hate you," Enjin muttered.

But he reached over, took Tamsy’s plate, and began cutting the toast into perfect, bite-sized squares—exactly the way the brat liked it.

"Eat your bread, Ghost," Enjin said, his voice soft despite the anger. "We have Calculus in twenty minutes, and if I’m late because of your sourdough, I’m driving you into a lake."

Tamsy just smiled, a real, non-bratty smile that made Enjin’s stomach flip. "You wouldn't. You'd be too worried about my cashmere getting wet." And the worst part? Enjin knew he was right.

If Enjin could have traded his soul to a demon for a cloaking device at 9:50 AM, he would have done it in a heartbeat.

He was pulling the silver SUV into the Saint Akuta’s campus lot, and it was like a scene from a nightmare. The "Pit Stop" crew, his brothers, his fellow racers, the guys who had seen him win championships—were all standing by the entrance to the Science building. Gris, Zodyl, Arkha, Regto, and Gountess were leaning against the stone pillars, laughing and probably talking about tires.

And here Enjin was, driving the "Peasant Wagon" with a white-haired porcelain doll in the passenger seat.

"Okay, listen," Enjin whispered, his grip on the wheel turning his knuckles white. "I’m going to drop you off at the curb. You get out, you walk fast, and we pretend we don't know each other. I’ll meet you in class."

Tamsy, who was currently occupied with applying a layer of clear lip gloss, didn't even look up. "Absolutely not. My bag is in the back, and it’s heavy. Also, the curb is dusty. You’re opening the door, Enjin. It’s in the contract."

"There is no written contract, Tamsy!"

"There’s a 'I-own-your-bunker' contract," Tamsy countered, snapping his gloss shut. He turned to Enjin, eyes sparkling with pure, bratty mischief. "Now, park. And try to look like you’re enjoying your job. It adds to the mystery."

Enjin let out a sound that was half-growl, half-sob. He pulled the SUV up right in front of the crew. The silence that fell over the parking lot was deafening.

Gris stopped mid-sentence. Zodyl’s jaw literally dropped. Gountess, who was eating a bag of chips, froze with a chip halfway to his mouth. They all stared as the "Red Ghost" put the car in park and hopped out.

Enjin felt like he was walking to the gallows. He walked around to the passenger side, his face a deep, burning shade of beet-red. He caught Gris’s eye. Gris looked horrified. Enjin just gave a tiny, subtle shake of his head that said 'Don't say a word.'

Enjin opened the door.

Tamsy stepped out like he was exiting a limousine at the Met Gala. He handed his marble-patterned tablet bag to Enjin without a word, adjusted his baby-blue sweater, and looked at the stunned crew with a bored, half-lidded expression.

"You’re late with the door, Enjin," Tamsy said loudly, making sure everyone heard. "And you forgot to wipe the dust off my bag. Honestly, the service today is dropping."

"BOOOOYYYYYYYY!" Zodyl’s voice shattered the silence like a sledgehammer. "ENJIN? IS THAT YOU? OR DID SOMEONE REPLACE MY BEST FRIEND WITH A BUTLER?"

"OH MY GOD!" Gountess screamed, dropping his chips. "ENJIN IS A MAID! LOOK AT HIM CARRYING THE BAG! DO YOU HAVE A LACE APRON IN THE CAR TOO, BRO?"

"Is this the 'strategic retreat' you were talking about, Eight?" Gris yelled, clutching his stomach as he started to howl with laughter. "You look so cute! Does he give you a gold star for good behavior?"

Enjin wanted to die. He wanted to vanish. He wanted to throw the marble bag at Zodyl’s head. But he couldn't. He was stuck. He stood there, holding Tamsy’s bag, looking like a total pushover.

"Shut up!" Enjin barked, though his voice cracked a little from the sheer embarrassment. "It’s a... it’s a business arrangement! It’s complicated!"

"It looks very simple to me," Arkha cackled, walking over and poking Enjin’s shoulder. "Our champion racer is now a luxury handbag carrier. Does he pay you in cookies or head pats?"

Tamsy, seeing the chaos he had caused, decided to turn the brat-dial up to eleven. He reached out and patted Enjin’s cheek—right in front of everyone.

"He’s actually very sweet," Tamsy told the group, his voice sweet as honey. "He even counted the ice cubes in my tea this morning. He’s a natural caregiver. Right, Enjin?"

The crew went absolutely feral. Zodyl started rolling on the floor. Regto and Gountess were doubling over, clutching each other for support. Arkha was just recording the whole thing on his phone, probably for the group chat.

"I am going to kill all of you," Enjin whispered, his eyes dark with a mix of rage and shame. "Every single one of you."

"Can we go now?" Tamsy asked, looking at his nails. "The noise level here is very 'public school.' It’s giving me a migraine."

Enjin didn't even argue. He just turned, head down, and started walking toward the building with Tamsy’s bag in hand. He could hear the boys behind him.

"HEY ENJIN! CAN YOU CARRY MY SNEAKERS TOO?" "DO YOU DO WINDOWS, BRO?" "WASH THE CAR NEXT, BUTLER-BOY!"

As they entered the quiet hallway of the Science building, away from the screaming crew, Enjin slammed Tamsy’s bag into his chest.

"I hope you’re happy," Enjin hissed. "They’re never going to let me live that down. I’m a joke. My reputation is gone. I might as well move to a different city."

Tamsy caught the bag, not even stumbling. He looked at Enjin’s fuming face, and for a second, the bratty mask slipped. He saw how truly upset Enjin was—the way his hands were shaking with suppressed frustration.

"They’re just jealous," Tamsy said quietly, his voice surprisingly normal. "They wish they had someone who actually took care of them instead of just talking about cars."

Enjin blinked, caught off guard by the sudden change in tone. "That doesn't make it better, Tamsy. I looked like a loser."

Tamsy stepped closer, his vanilla scent wrapping around Enjin again. He reached out and straightened Enjin’s hoodie, his touch light and weirdly comforting.

"You didn't look like a loser," Tamsy whispered, looking up at him through his white lashes. "You looked like mine. And trust me, that’s a much better aesthetic."

Before Enjin could process that before he could figure out if that was an insult or something else—Tamsy turned and glided toward the Calculus hall, his white hair swaying.

Enjin stood in the middle of the hallway, his heart thumping like a drum. He was mad. He was humiliated. He was the laughingstock of the racing circuit.

But as he watched Tamsy walk away, he realized he wasn't following because of the bunker anymore. He was following because he wanted to see what the "Ghost" would do next.

"Damn," Enjin breathed out, a frustrated, helpless smile finally breaking through his anger.

Enjin was still vibrating from the humiliation in the parking lot as he took his seat in the back row. His phone was buzzing in his pocket—a relentless stream of notifications from the group chat. He didn't even have to look to know what they were: stickers of maids, photoshopped images of him in a butler outfit, and Zodyl asking if he could book a "tea service" for Friday.

"I’m going to throw my phone into the ocean," Enjin muttered, resting his forehead on the cool wood of the desk.

"You’d just have to dive in and get it," Tamsy’s voice drifted over. He had taken his seat two rows in front of Enjin, but he was turned around, watching Enjin with an amused, cat-like expression. "How else would you check my 'Requested' list?"

"Shut up, Tamsy Caines," Enjin groaned.

The Professor clapped his hands, signaling the start of the lecture. "Alright, settle down. Before we get into the Integration of Rational Functions by Partial Fractions, I have an announcement regarding your mid-semester project."

The room groaned. Calculus was hard enough; a project sounded like a death sentence.

"You will be working in pairs," the Professor continued, his eyes scanning the room. "The project involves modeling the volume of a complex solid using the Shell Method and Disc Method. I have already assigned the partners based on your current grades. I am pairing the 'top performers' with those who... let's say, struggle to stay awake."

Enjin had a bad feeling. A very, very bad feeling.

"Mr. Caines," the Professor said, looking at Tamsy. "Since you were late to the first class but showed excellent marks in your entrance exam, you will be partnering with..." He paused, his eyes landing on the back row. "...Enjin."

Enjin’s head hit the desk with a loud thud.

"Excellent," Tamsy whispered, loud enough for Enjin to hear. "I’ve always wanted a lab assistant who knows how to change a tire."

As the class ended, Enjin tried to make a break for the door. He didn't want to talk about "Partial Fractions," and he definitely didn't want to talk about spending the weekend with Tamsy. But as he reached the hallway, he was intercepted.

It wasn't just the crew. It was a group of high-society students—the "Rich Kids" of Saint Akuta’s who usually looked at Enjin like he was part of the maintenance staff. They were surrounding Tamsy, asking him about his summer in Paris.

"Tamsy, who is that guy?" one of the girls asked, pointing directly at Enjin. She looked at his baggy hoodie and his worn-out sneakers with a look of pure confusion. "Is he... your new bodyguard? Or did your mom hire a personal trainer?"

The crew, Gris, Zodyl, and the boys, were standing nearby, ears perked up, waiting for Tamsy to drop the "Chauffeur" bomb again. They were ready to laugh. They were ready to watch Enjin get burned.

Enjin braced himself. Here it comes, he thought. 'He’s my maid.' 'He’s my errand boy.' 'He’s my peasant.'

Tamsy looked at the girl, then at Enjin. He didn't smirk. He didn't act bratty. Instead, he walked over and slid his arm through Enjin’s, leaning his head slightly toward Enjin’s shoulder. It was a move so intimate, so unexpected, that the entire hallway went silent.

"Oh, him?" Tamsy said, his voice smooth and loud enough for everyone to hear. "This is Enjin. He’s my close friend."

Enjin’s heart stopped. He looked down at Tamsy, his eyes wide. Close friend?

"Actually," Tamsy continued, flashing a sweet, almost protective smile at the group, "He’s the only one allowed to drive my cars. We spend almost every night together in his workshop. He’s incredibly smart... he just pretends to be a delinquent for the 'aesthetic.' Don't mind him."

The crew’s jaws dropped. Zodyl’s "butler" joke died in his throat. The rich kids looked at Enjin with newfound respect—or at least, newfound curiosity. If Tamsy Caines called a guy a "close friend," that guy was suddenly untouchable.

"Is that true?" Gris whispered, looking baffled. "You guys are... close?"

Enjin was frozen. He felt the heat of Tamsy’s arm against his. He felt the vanilla scent. He knew Tamsy was lying—they were barely "acquaintances" who bickered over tea—but the way Tamsy said it made it feel... real.

"Yeah," Enjin managed to say, his voice deep and slightly shaky. "We’re... yeah. Close."

Tamsy squeezed his arm once, a secret little signal. "Anyway, we have a project to do. Enjin is taking me home now. We have a very long weekend of 'studying' ahead of us."

11:00 AM. The drive to the Caines mansion was quiet. The bickering had stopped. Enjin was still reeling from the "close friend" comment. He kept glancing at Tamsy, who was staring out the window, looking bored again.

"Why did you do that?" Enjin finally asked as they pulled into the long, winding driveway. "You could have just told them I was the driver. You would have gotten a laugh out of it."

Tamsy didn't look at him. He just watched the palm trees pass by. "Your friends are annoying," he said simply. "And those girls are vultures. If they think you're just a servant, they’ll treat you like one. And I’m the only one allowed to treat you like that."

Enjin let out a short, dry laugh. "So it was a territorial thing? You're protecting your 'property'?"

Tamsy finally turned to him. The bratty smirk was back, but there was something softer in his eyes. "Call it what you want, Enjin. But you're coming inside now. My mother is in Milan, the staff is off for the weekend, and we have to figure out the Volume of a Solid of Revolution."

He hopped out of the car, not even waiting for Enjin to open the door this time. He stopped at the front steps and looked back.

"Hurry up, 'Close Friend.' My laptop is in the library. And I want a snack. Make sure it’s healthy. I have a photoshoot on Monday."

Enjin sat in the car for a moment, staring at the steering wheel. He was mad at the orders, mad at the situation, and mad at how easily Tamsy could flip his world upside down with a single sentence.

"God, Tamsy Caines," Enjin whispered, but he was already unbuckling his seatbelt.

He followed the white-haired ghost into the mansion, realizing that his "Pending Purgatory" had officially turned into a "Weekend in Paradise", and he was pretty sure he was going to fail Calculus because he wouldn't be able to keep his eyes off his partner.

The library of the Caines mansion looked like something straight out of a movie—mahogany shelves reaching the ceiling, rolling ladders, and velvet curtains that probably cost more than Enjin’s entire car collection.

Enjin was currently hunched over a massive oak table, surrounded by loose-leaf paper, a graphing calculator, and a textbook that felt like a brick. He was trying to focus on the Shell Method—the part of Calculus 2 where you find the volume of a solid by "peeling" it like an onion.

"Okay, look," Enjin said, his voice echoing in the vast, quiet room. He pointed to a diagram he’d drawn. "The formula for the volume is this…using the shell method it will become this. Look at this, this is the radius, and of course this one is the height. If we rotate this around the y-axis, we—"

"Enjin," Tamsy interrupted.

Enjin didn't look up. "Not now, Tamsy. If we don't get this right, the Professor is going to realize I’m the one 'struggling to stay awake' and you're the one carrying the team. We need to find the limits of integration."

"Enjin, I'm bored."

"Math is boring! That’s the point!" Enjin snapped, finally looking up.

Tamsy wasn't even looking at the textbook. He was draped across a chaise lounge nearby, wearing a silk shirt that was unbuttoned just enough to be annoying. He was spinning a silver pen between his fingers, looking at Enjin with an expression that was dangerously focused.

"I can't do integrals right now," Tamsy sighed, his voice dropping into that soft, bratty hum. "My brain feels... dusty. I need a sensory distraction. This library is too quiet."

"Then go listen to music," Enjin grumbled, turning back to his notes. "this times the integral from zero to four of—"

"Can I touch your arm?"

The pen in Enjin’s hand stopped mid-stroke. He felt a sudden, sharp spike in his heart rate. "What?"

"Your arm," Tamsy repeated, sitting up slowly. He glided over to the table, his movements silent and graceful. He stood right next to Enjin, the scent of vanilla and sea salt suddenly overwhelming the smell of old paper. "The muscle there. The one that tenses when you grip the wrench. It’s very... prominent. I want to see if it’s as hard as it looks."

Enjin felt the heat rising from his chest to his jaw. He looked at Tamsy, trying to find a trace of a joke, but the white-haired boy looked dead serious. His pale eyes were fixed on Enjin’s forearm, which was resting on the table.

"No," Enjin said, though his voice sounded way less confident than he wanted. "We are studying. Don't be weird."

"It’s not weird. It’s a study of anatomy," Tamsy countered, stepping even closer until his thigh was brushing against Enjin’s shoulder. He reached out, his cool, pale fingers hovering just an inch away from Enjin’s skin. "Please? I'll do ten problems of partial fractions without complaining if you let me."

Enjin’s resolve crumbled at the mention of the math problems. He was tired, he was frustrated, and having Tamsy this close was making it impossible to think about the formulas anyway.

"Fine," Enjin muttered, looking away toward the bookshelves. "Just... whatever. Do it and then get back to work."

Enjin braced himself. He expected a quick poke or a jab.

Instead, Tamsy’s fingers landed softly on his forearm. His skin was freezing, a sharp contrast to Enjin’s heat. Tamsy didn't just touch it, he literally explored it. His thumb traced the line of a vein that ran down toward Enjin’s wrist, his touch light as a feather but feeling like an electric shock.

Enjin’s breath hitched. He stayed perfectly still, his muscles tensing on instinct.

"Wow," Tamsy whispered, his bratty tone replaced by genuine wonder. He moved his hand up, his palm cupping the curve of Enjin’s bicep. "You're like... solid stone. Is this from the racing? Or do you just spend all your time lifting heavy things to feel manly?"

"Both," Enjin managed to choke out. He could feel Tamsy’s breath on his neck. The tension in the room was so thick you could have cut it with a racing harness.

Tamsy’s hand moved further, his fingers grazing the edge of Enjin’s hoodie sleeve. He leaned in, his white hair brushing against Enjin’s cheek. "Your heart is beating really fast, Enjin. Is that a side effect of Calculus? Or are you scared of me?"

Enjin turned his head, and suddenly, they were inches apart. Tamsy’s face was a masterpiece of porcelain and arrogance, his lips parted in a tiny, challenging smirk.

"I'm not scared of you, Ghost," Enjin growled, his voice dropping an octave. "I’m just waiting for you to finish so I can pass this class."

Tamsy didn't move away. He stayed right there, his hand still resting on Enjin’s arm, his eyes searching Enjin’s. The bratty mask was gone again, replaced by that quiet, intense curiosity that Enjin couldn't steer away from.

"You're very interesting, Number 08," Tamsy whispered. "Much more interesting than a solid of revolution."

He suddenly pulled his hand away and stepped back, the cold air hitting Enjin’s skin where Tamsy’s hand had been. Tamsy sat back down at the table and opened his tablet like nothing had happened.

"Okay," Tamsy said, his voice back to its usual bratty lilt. "Ten problems. Start talking about the x-axis, butler-boy. I’m listening."

Enjin sat there, stunned, his arm still tingling from Tamsy’s touch. He looked down at his notes, but the numbers were just blurry lines now. He was mad—mad that Tamsy could affect him so easily, and mad that he actually wanted Tamsy to do it again.

He started explaining the Shell Method again, but for the rest of the night, every time he said the word "radius," he could only think about the feeling of Tamsy’s fingers on his skin.

The mansion was too quiet. After three hours of "studying" which mostly consisted of Tamsy sighing dramatically and Enjin doing ninety percent of the graphing. Tamsy had disappeared to "refresh his skincare."

"Don't touch anything," Tamsy had warned, pointing a finger at Enjin. "Everything in this wing is curated. If you move a vase, the feng shui of my entire weekend will be ruined."

Enjin, restless and fueled by three cups of bitter black coffee, couldn't just sit still. He started wandering. He told himself he was just looking for a bathroom, but his feet led him toward a small, inconspicuous door tucked behind a velvet curtain near the back of the library. It didn't look like the rest of the house. It was heavy, dark wood, and it didn't have a gold-plated handle.

He pushed it open.

His jaw dropped. This wasn't a "curated" room. It was a mess. But it was a beautiful mess.

Instead of white marble and minimalist art, the walls were covered in old posters of Formula 1 legends. There were stacks of "Tuning Magazine" from five years ago, a collection of vintage toy cars on a dusty shelf, and a workbench that looked suspiciously like the one in Enjin’s bunker, complete with a stray wrench and a bottle of high-grade motor oil.

"No way," Enjin whispered, picking up a dog-eared magazine. On the cover was a classic Red 08—the predecessor to his own car. "The Ghost is a gearhead?"

Before he could dig deeper, his phone vibrated violently in his pocket. It was a FaceTime call.

RIYO 

Enjin groaned and swiped accept. Riyo’s face popped up, her hair in a messy bun and a bag of chips in her hand.

"ENJIN! Where are you?" she shouted, the crunch of a chip echoing through the speaker. "I went to the garage and your car is gone. Did you finally sell your soul to the racing gods?"

"I'm at a... friend's house," Enjin said, keeping his voice low as he glanced at the door. "We're doing a Calculus project."

"A friend? You don't have friends, you have 'crew members,'" Riyo teased. Then her face changed, getting all soft and pouting. "Ugh, I’m so bored. I tried calling Tamsy you know? The one I always talk about but he’s been so busy lately. I really miss him. Did you know he’s an Engineering major too? He’s super smart, even if he acts like a spoiled brat."

Enjin froze. Engineering? Tamsy had told him he was doing "Arts and Aesthetics." And just attending calculus class because he’s bored.

"Wait, Riyo... you're sure? Tamsy is in Engineering?"

"Duh! He’s like, a genius with aerodynamics," Riyo said, oblivious. "He used to build these crazy model planes that actually flew. Hey, wait... you’re an Engineering major. Do you know him? Have you seen him around campus? He’s hard to miss, he looks like a cloud."

Enjin looked at the racing magazines in the room, then at the door. "I... I've seen him," he muttered.

"You should totally befriend him, ENBRO! He needs a 'straight-guy' friend to keep him grounded, and you need someone to tell you when your hoodies look like rags. It’s a win-win!"

Suddenly, a cold hand reached out from the shadows and snatched the phone right out of Enjin’s hand.

"Hey!" Enjin yelped.

Tamsy stood there, looking absolutely livid. His face was pale, and for the first time, he didn't look bratty, he looked caught. He quickly hit the 'End Call' button before Riyo could see his face.

"What the hell, Tamsy?" Enjin hissed. "Riyo was just—"

"I told you not to touch anything," Tamsy’s voice was a sharp, dangerous whisper. He shoved the phone back into Enjin’s chest. "And I told you this room was off-limits."

Enjin didn't back down. He stepped closer, towering over Tamsy in the cramped, messy room. "Engineering, Tamsy? Aerodynamics? And all this?" He gestured to the racing posters. "Why are you lying to everyone? Why are you pretending to be some 'silk and pearls' ghost when you clearly know your way around a turbocharger?"

Tamsy’s eyes flared. He looked like he wanted to scream, but he forced himself to stay quiet. He looked at the floor, his white hair falling over his face.

"Don't tell her," Tamsy whispered.

"Tell Riyo? Why? She’s your best friend, she already knows half of it."

"No," Tamsy stepped into Enjin’s space, his hand gripping the front of Enjin’s hoodie. The tension from the library was back, but it was sharper now. "Don't tell her you know. Don't tell her we're... whatever this is."

"Why?"

Tamsy looked up at him, his expression a mix of pride and something that looked a lot like fear. "Because I wanted to be the one to tell her. I wanted to see how long it would take for the 'Great Enjin K' to figure out that I’m not just a pretty face."

He let go of Enjin’s hoodie, his fingers lingering on the fabric for a second too long.

"I’m a brat, Enjin. I like being catered to. I like the aesthetic," Tamsy said, his voice returning to that smooth, haughty tone. "But I also like things that go fast. And right now... I like the fact that you’re the only person in this world who knows both versions of me."

Enjin stared at him. He looked at the white-haired boy who was a ghost in the halls and a mechanic in the dark. He felt a weird, heavy thud in his chest that had nothing to do with anger.

"You're a mess, Caines," Enjin said, his voice surprisingly soft.

"I'm an icon," Tamsy corrected him, but he didn't move away.

The silence in the hidden room was different now. It wasn't "peasant" silence or "landlord" silence. It was a shared secret. And as Enjin looked at Tamsy, he realized that the "favor" he was doing wasn't just about a bunker anymore.

"Fine," Enjin muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "I won't tell Riyo. But you’re explaining the Volume by Cylindrical Shells to me right now. No distractions."

Tamsy smirked—a real, wicked smirk. "Deal. But only if you let me wear your hoodie. This room is cold, and I’m bored of cashmere."

Enjin groaned, but he was already pulling the black hoodie over his head to hand it to the brat.

"Just once," Enjin lied to himself. "Just once."

Monday morning at the Engineering Department was usually a sea of tired faces, wrinkled flannels, and the smell of burnt coffee. But today, the atmosphere felt like a live wire.

Enjin was walking toward the lecture hall, his head down, trying to ignore the fact that his chest felt strangely cold. He was wearing a plain, thin t-shirt because his favorite, oversized black hoodie, the one with the subtle "Red 08" embroidery on the cuff—was currently missing from his closet.

He knew exactly where it was.

"Yo, Butler-Boy! You look a little... light today," Zodyl’s voice boomed from the top of the stairs.

Enjin looked up to see the whole crew, Gris, Zodyl, Arkha, and the rest standing in their usual spot. They were grinning like hyenas.

"Where’s the armor, Eight?" Gris asked, Raising an eyebrow. "You never come to campus without the hoodie. Did you finally wash it, or did you lose it in a bet?"

"I just... forgot it at home," Enjin muttered, his ears already turning pink. "Drop it."

"He forgot it," Zodyl cackled, elbowing Arkha. "Or maybe he gave it to a lucky lady? Or a lucky... ghost?"

Before Enjin could launch a physical attack on Zodyl, the hallway went completely silent. It was that specific, heavy silence that only happened when Tamsy Caines entered a room.

Tamsy glided down the hall, looking as bratty and expensive as ever. He was holding a small, iced lavender latte in one hand and his marble tablet in the other. But he wasn't wearing cashmere today.

He was wearing a massive, oversized black hoodie that swallowed his frame. The sleeves were so long they covered his hands, and the hem reached mid-thigh, making him look like a tiny, high-fashion thief. On the right cuff, clearly visible as he lifted his drink, was the "Red 08" logo.

"No way," Gris whispered, his eyes wide.

"Is that..." Zodyl started, then he let out a scream that sounded like a tea kettle. "THAT’S ENJIN’S HOODIE! OH MY GOD, HE ACTUALLY DID IT! THE BUTLER GAVE AWAY HIS UNIFORM!"

Enjin wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole. He covered his face with his hands, his skin burning. "I'm going to die. I am actually going to die right here."

The crew went absolutely feral. They started hooting and hollering, making kissy noises and bowing as Tamsy approached.

"Looking good, Caines!" Regto yelled. "Does it smell like engine grease and desperation, or is that just Enjin’s natural musk?"

"Nice fit, Tamsy!" Zodyl shouted, wiping a fake tear from his eye. "We didn't know you were part of the 'Red Ghost' fan club!"

Tamsy stopped in front of the group. He didn't look embarrassed. He looked annoyed. He looked at the screaming boys like they were a swarm of particularly loud flies.

"Ugh, stop shouting," Tamsy hissed, his voice dripping with bratty authority. "You’re all being so incredibly common. It’s early, and your voices are hitting a frequency that makes my skin crawl."

"Then, why are you wearing our boy's clothes?" Gountess teased, leaning in. "A bit 'un-aesthetic' for a Caines, isn't it?"

Tamsy looked down at the hoodie, then back at Enjin, who was still hiding his face. Tamsy reached out with a sleeve-covered hand and poked Enjin’s shoulder.

"It’s hideous," Tamsy announced to the group, wrinkling his nose. "The fabric is scratchy, it’s far too big, and it smells faintly of a tire shop. I’m honestly doing him a favor by taking it out of circulation. It’s an act of charity."

"Then take it off!" Enjin barked, finally looking up, his face a mess of red and frustration. "If it’s so gross, give it back!"

Tamsy pulled the hoodie tighter around himself, burying his chin in the soft collar. "No. I’m cold. The AC in the Engineering wing is set to 'Arctic,' and I refuse to freeze just because you can't dress yourself. Besides..." He leaned closer to Enjin, loud enough for the boys to hear. "...it’s surprisingly warm. Even if the person who owns it is a brute."

The boys erupted again.

"HE’S NOT GIVING IT BACK!" "ENJIN, YOU’RE OFFICIALLY MARKED!" "WHO’S THE BOSS NOW, RED GHOST?"

"Shut up! All of you!" Enjin yelled, grabbing Tamsy’s arm (which was mostly just hoodie fabric) and dragging him toward the Calculus hall. "We’re going to class! Move!"

As they hurried away, Tamsy tripped slightly on the long hem, letting out a small, bratty huff. "Slow down, Enjin! You're stretching the neck! If you ruin this, I’m doubling your rent!"

"You're already wearing my clothes, Caines! What more do you want?"

"I want you to stop walking so fast and get me a straw that isn't paper," Tamsy complained, but he didn't let go of Enjin’s arm.

As they ducked into the lecture hall, leaving the echoes of the crew’s laughter behind, Enjin looked at Tamsy. The white-haired boy was still drowning in the black fabric, looking small and—strangely—like he belonged there.

Enjin felt the anger fading, replaced by that same, heavy thud in his chest. He was embarrassed, his reputation was in tatters, and his friends would never let him hear the end of it.

But as Tamsy sat down in Row 3, still swaddled in Enjin’s hoodie, Enjin realized he didn't really want it back.

"This is so embarrasing," Enjin whispered, sitting down behind him.

Tamsy turned around, a tiny, secret smirk on his lips. "I heard that, Butler. Now open the textbook. Section 7.4. Integration of Rational Functions. And try not to drool on my table."

Enjin just sighed and opened the book. 

The Engineering lecture hall was packed. It was the day of the final presentation for the Applications of Integration project. The atmosphere was tense, filled with the smell of dry-erase markers and the nervous energy of fifty students who had spent their weekend crying over volumes of solids.

Enjin stood at the front of the room, adjusting his shirt. He was nervous, but not for the reasons people thought. He wasn't worried about the math, he knew the physics of a rotating body better than anyone in this room. He was worried about the "Ghost" sitting next to him.

Tamsy looked like he was attending a garden party, not a mid-term presentation. He was still wearing Enjin’s black hoodie (he’d claimed it was "permanently confiscated"), paired with white headphones around his neck. He looked bored, tapping his pen against the podium.

"Alright," the Professor droned. "Enjin and Mr. Caines. You’re up. Show us your model for the Solid of Revolution."

Enjin stepped forward and hit the 'Enter' key on the laptop. A complex, three-dimensional wireframe model appeared on the giant projector screen. It was a sleek, aerodynamic intake manifold—the heart of a high-performance engine.

"We chose to model a custom intake runner," Enjin started, his voice steady. He was in his element now. "To calculate the volume of the internal chamber, we used the Shell Method because our boundaries are defined by a function of this one, and we’re rotating about the y-axis. This allows us to account for the varying thickness of the aluminum walls."

As Enjin spoke, he walked through the integration they found out.

He didn't stutter once. He was clear, technical, and surprisingly hot when he was focused. The crew in the back, Zodyl and Gris, actually stopped whispering for a second, impressed by the "Red Ghost" in his professional zone.

But then, it was Tamsy’s turn.

Tamsy was supposed to handle the Theoretical Derivation—the deep, abstract math that connected the physics to the calculus. He stepped up to the podium, looking cool and collected. But as he looked at the screen, he froze.

Tamsy had forgotten his flashcards. The "genius" who knew aerodynamics had a total brain-fart under the flickering fluorescent lights. He looked at the complicated partial fraction decomposition on the screen and his mind went blank.

He didn't look scared—he looked annoyed at himself. He stared at the screen, his lips parting slightly, silence stretching for a second too long.

In the back of his mind, Tamsy was panicking. He didn't actually know the specifics of Enjin's custom 3D modeling software, and he hated to admit he was lost. He had been secretly hoping Enjin would carry the technical side so he could just look pretty and smart, but now he was the one lagging.

"And... the reason we used this specific substitution..." Tamsy started, his voice wavering just a tiny bit.

Enjin didn't even wait. Without missing a beat, he stepped closer to Tamsy, their shoulders brushing. He reached out and tapped a specific part of the screen, subtly sliding a small piece of paper—the backup notes he’d written just in case—onto the podium where only Tamsy could see them.

"As my partner was about to say," Enjin interjected, his voice deep and reassuring, "the trigonometric substitution was necessary because the curvature of the intake follows a circular arc. Tamsy, do you want to show them the final volume result?"

Tamsy’s eyes flicked to the notes. He let out a tiny, invisible breath of relief. His bratty mask snapped back into place instantly.

"Exactly," Tamsy said, his voice regaining its haughty, superior tone. "As Enjin correctly noted, the arc is defined by this one on the screen. If you look at the second derivative, you’ll see why the flow stays laminar."

Tamsy launched into a brilliant, high-level explanation of the math, his voice smooth and confident. To the rest of the class, they looked like a perfect, well-oiled machine. The "Goth Ghost" and the "Red Racer" were perfectly in sync, finishing each other's sentences like they’d been doing this for years.

"Excellent work," the Professor said, actually smiling. "A perfect score. The integration of the engineering application with the theoretical math was... flawless."

As they walked back to their seats, the crew started whistling. "Teamwork makes the dream work!" Zodyl yelled.

Enjin sat down, his heart finally slowing down. He felt a nudge against his arm. Tamsy was leaning toward him, his white hair shielding his face from the rest of the class.

"I didn't need your help," Tamsy whispered, his voice as bratty as ever. "I was just pausing for dramatic effect. It’s called 'pacing,' Enjin. You wouldn't understand."

Enjin looked at him, seeing the way Tamsy’s hand was still gripped tightly around the notes Enjin had given him. "Sure, Tamsy. Dramatic effect. That’s why you were staring at the screen like it was a ghost."

Tamsy wrinkled his nose and looked away, but he didn't pull his arm away from Enjin’s. "Whatever. Your handwriting is messy. I could barely read it."

"You read it well enough to get us an A," Enjin countered, a small smirk playing on his lips.

Tamsy was quiet for a second. He looked at the back of the room, then back at Enjin. "I was... I was actually worried about you," he admitted, his voice so low Enjin almost missed it. "I thought you were going to stutter or forget the limits. I didn't know how to explain your weird car-math if you messed up."

Enjin felt that heavy thud in his chest again. Tamsy had been worried about him?

"I've got you, Ghost," Enjin said, his voice soft and genuine. "You handle the 'aesthetic' side, I'll handle the 'engine' side. It works, doesn't it?"

Tamsy didn't say anything. He just reached over and adjusted the collar of Enjin’s shirt, his fingers lingering for a second too long.

"I guess it does," Tamsy whispered. "Just don't expect a thank you. You're still my driver."

Enjin just laughed. He was a chauffeur, a maid, a "close friend," and a study partner. And as he looked at the bratty, white-haired boy sitting next to him, he realized he wouldn't change a single thing.

The "Secret Bunker" felt different tonight. Usually, the air was heavy with the stress of upcoming races or the grime of a long day’s work, but tonight, it felt like a victory lap. The overhead lights hummed with a soft, yellow glow, reflecting off the polished crimson body of the Red 08.

"We got an A," Enjin muttered, still shaking his head as he unlocked the heavy steel door. "I’m actually passing Calculus. My mom might actually cry."

"Of course we got an A," Tamsy huffed, trailing behind him. He was still wearing the "Red 08" hoodie, the sleeves flopping as he gestured around the room. "I was the one presenting. My presence alone is worth a 4.0 GPA."

Enjin rolled his eyes, but he wasn't really annoyed. He walked over to his car and patted the hood. He looked at Tamsy, then back at the driver’s seat. He’d never let anyone—not even Gris—sit in that seat. It was his throne. It was the only place where he felt completely in control.

"Hey, Ghost," Enjin said, his voice dropping into a low, quiet tone. "Come here."

Tamsy tilted his head, looking suspicious. "If you're going to ask me to help you lift a transmission, the answer is no. My manicure is less than twenty-four hours old."

"Just get over here."

Enjin reached out, grabbed Tamsy by the waist of the oversized hoodie, and pulled him toward the driver's side door. He popped the latch and swung it open, revealing the stripped-down, professional racing interior. The carbon fiber dash, the quick-release steering wheel, and the deep, bucket racing seat looked intimidating.

"Sit," Enjin commanded.

Tamsy’s eyes went wide. The bratty, "I-don't-care" mask shattered. He looked at the seat, then at Enjin, his breath hitching. "You... you're serious? You don't let anyone touch this car."

"I let my 'close friend' touch it," Enjin teased, though his heart was racing. "Get in. Before I change my mind."

Tamsy climbed in slowly, his movements unusually careful. He sank into the bucket seat, his small frame almost disappearing into the professional padding. He reached out, his pale fingers trembling slightly as they gripped the suede-covered steering wheel.

The moment Tamsy’s hands touched the wheel, something happened. He didn't say anything. He didn't make a joke. He just stared at the dashboard, his reflection caught in the glass of the RPM gauge.

Enjin leaned against the doorframe, watching him. He expected a comment about how "industrial" it felt or how the seat was "un-aesthetic." But Tamsy was silent. Then, Enjin noticed it—the way Tamsy’s shoulders were shaking.

"Tamsy?" Enjin’s voice went sharp with panic. He leaned in closer, his hand hovering over Tamsy’s shoulder. "Hey, what's wrong? Is the seat too tight? Are you—wait, are you crying?"

Tamsy quickly wiped his eyes with the long sleeve of the hoodie, but a stray tear escaped, trailing down his pale cheek. He didn't look up.

"I'm not crying," Tamsy whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "It’s just... the lighting in here is really bad for my eyes. It’s making them water."

"You're totally crying!" Enjin scrambled, feeling a level of fear he’d never felt during a 120mph drift. "God, Tamsy, I’m sorry! I didn't mean to—look, if you hate the car that much, you can get out! Don't cry, okay? I’ll buy you a latte! Two lattes!"

"I don't hate it, you idiot," Tamsy snapped, though there was no bite in it. He finally looked up at Enjin, his eyes red-rimmed and shimmering. "It’s just... no one has ever shared their 'thing' with me before. Everything in my house is a display piece. Everything is for show. But this..." He gripped the wheel harder. "This is real. And you’re letting me be a part of it."

Enjin froze. He looked at the white-haired boy sitting in the heart of his world, wearing his clothes, sitting in his seat. The "Calculus" of it finally clicked. It wasn't about the grades, or the bunker, or the "close friend" lie.

It was about the fact that they actually fit. Like a perfectly timed gear shift.

"Yeah," Enjin said, his voice soft and rough. "It’s real."

They stayed like that for a long time. Tamsy sitting in the car, pretending he wasn't overwhelmed, and Enjin standing by the door, pretending he wasn't terrified by how much he cared about the boy in the driver’s seat.

They didn't talk about the tears. They didn't talk about the "close friend" comment. They didn't talk about the fact that the "Red Ghost" had finally been haunted by something he couldn't outrun.

It was just a quiet, happy moment in a dark bunker, surrounded by the smell of gasoline and the feeling of a victory they hadn't even raced for yet.

"Enjin?" Tamsy asked, his voice returning to its bratty, bossy lilt, though it was still a bit shaky.

"Yeah?"

"Adjust the mirrors. I can't see my reflection properly, and I think I look cute in this seat."

Enjin let out a loud, relieved laugh, reaching into the car to adjust the glass. "You're a nightmare, Caines."

"I'm an icon," Tamsy corrected, leaning back and closing his eyes, a small, genuine smile finally touching his lips. "Now, tell me about the Moment of Inertia for this wheel. I’m bored and I want to hear you talk about math."

Enjin leaned his head against the roll cage, looking at Tamsy, and for the first time in his life, he didn't care about the redline. He just wanted to stay right here.

The sun hadn’t even fully risen over the city when Enjin found himself staring at the bathroom mirror, his hands gripping the porcelain sink so hard his knuckles turned a ghostly white. He felt sick, not the kind of sickness a fever brings, but the visceral, churning nausea of a man who realized he had accidentally handed over the keys to his soul.

The memory of the bunker played on a loop, a jagged film strip he couldn't stop. Tamsy’s tears. The way Tamsy’s small frame had looked so right, so fitting, in the driver’s seat of the Red 08. The way the air had tasted like salt and surrender.

"I’m straight," Enjin whispered to his reflection, his voice sounding thin and foreign. "I’m Enjin K. I like horsepower. I like girls. I like the simplicity of a straight line."

He splashed freezing water onto his face, gasping as the chill hit his skin. He needed to believe his own lie. He needed to reinforce the boundaries that Tamsy Caines had glided through like they were made of nothing but smoke. Tamsy wasn't a partner. He wasn't a "close friend." He was a landlord. A project. A high-maintenance distraction that was currently threatening to ruin everything Enjin understood about himself.

"It was just a moment," Enjin muttered, grabbing a towel. "People get emotional. It didn’t mean anything."

10:15 AM. The Quad. The campus was buzzing with Monday energy, but to Enjin, it felt like a minefield. Every white-haired student in the distance made his heart jump into his throat. He felt exposed, as if the secret intimacy of the weekend was written in grease across his forehead.

He saw him by the fountain.

Tamsy was surrounded by his usual clique of high-fashion Arts students, looking like a centerpiece in a display of porcelain dolls. He was laughing at something a girl said, but the second Enjin stepped onto the plaza, Tamsy’s head turned. It was as if he had a sensor tuned specifically to Enjin’s frequency.

Their eyes locked.

Tamsy didn't give him the usual bratty smirk. He didn't roll his eyes or make a demanding gesture. Instead, his expression softened into something terrifyingly genuine. He raised his hand, a small, hesitant wave that wasn't for the crowd, but only for Enjin. It was a wave that said, I remember what happened. I’m still here. We’re okay.

Enjin felt a spike of pure, unadulterated panic. That warmth was a threat. It was an invitation into a world where Enjin didn't know the rules.

He didn't wave back.

He didn't even nod. He tightened his jaw, looked directly through Tamsy as if he were nothing more than a glitch in the air, and pivoted on his heel. He walked in the opposite direction, his boots heavy and aggressive against the pavement, his heart hammering a frantic, rhythmic get out, get out, get out against his ribs.

2:00 PM. The Engineering Shop. Enjin spent the rest of the day in a self-imposed exile. He skipped their pre-Calculus coffee. He ignored three texts that he knew, without looking, were from Tamsy.

"Hey, Eight," Gris said, stepping into the dim light of the shop where Enjin was mindlessly disassembling a perfectly functional alternator. "Riyo said you skipped lunch. And Zodyl’s looking for you. You okay, man? You look like you’re waiting for an explosion."

"I'm busy, Gris," Enjin snapped, his voice sharp and jagged. "I have work to do. Tell the guys I'm staying late."

"But—"

"I said I'm busy!" Enjin roared, slamming a wrench onto the metal table.

Gris held up his hands, his expression shifting from confusion to a quiet, knowing pity. "Fine. Work hard, then. Just don't break the parts that aren't broken yet."

When Gris left, the silence of the shop felt like a weight. Enjin looked at his hands—the same hands that had almost reached out to touch Tamsy’s hair in the bunker. He hated them. He hated the way his body remembered a scent he should have forgotten.

He was building a wall. A massive, reinforced fortress of steel and denial. He convinced himself that if he stayed in the dark long enough, if he stayed busy enough, the "Ghost" would simply haunt someone else.

He didn't realize that when you build a wall to keep someone out, you end up trapping yourself in the dark with the very thing you're running from.

Enjin sat back against a stack of tires, pulling his hoodie up to hide his face. He felt the friction starting—the grinding of his old life against the new, terrifying reality he had let in. And deep down, he knew.

The wall wasn't going to hold.

The bunker, it was a cage. For seventy-two hours, Enjin had lived in the deafening roar of Tamsy’s absence. The silence was a physical weight, pressing against his lungs until every breath felt like inhaling iron filings. 

He had spent those three days in a fever state, scrubbing the engine of the Red 08 until his knuckles were raw and weeping, trying to wash away the phantom sensation of white hair brushing against his cheek.

Every time his phone buzzed, his heart would stop, a painful, stuttering jolt in his chest—only to shatter when it wasn't a text from the Ghost. He was mourning a relationship he was too terrified to admit existed, grieving for a boy he had spent all day pretending was a stranger.

He was hunched over the workbench, the harsh, flickering fluorescent light casting deep, exhausted hollows under his eyes, when the heavy steel door shrieked open.

Tamsy broke in.

He looked unraveled. His dark designer trench coat was heavy and damp from the rain, clinging to his slight frame. His silver-white hair, usually a masterpiece of perfection, was matted, wet, and sticking to his forehead. But it was his eyes that gutted Enjin—they weren't arrogant or bratty anymore. They were raw, bloodshot, and swimming with a desperation so deep it looked like grief.

"What is your problem?" Tamsy’s voice cracked, the sound bouncing hollowly off the concrete walls like a dying echo.

Enjin’s grip tightened on a heavy wrench until his entire arm shook with the effort not to turn around. "I’m busy, Caines. Go back to the mansion."

"Don’t you dare 'Caines' me!" Tamsy screamed, the sound tearing through the quiet of the bunker. He stumbled forward, his boots clicking erratically on the oil-stained floor.

 "You’ve been ignoring me for seventy-two hours! You walked past me in the hall like I was a ghost—the kind you’re actually afraid of! You looked through me, Enjin! Do you have any idea what that feels like? To be visible to the whole world but invisible to the only person you—" He stopped, a choked sob catching in his throat.

Enjin dropped the wrench. The heavy metal CLANG sounded like a gunshot. He spun around, his chest heaving, his face contorted in a mask of defensive, ugly rage. "I’m trying to survive, Tamsy! I have a life! I have friends who don't wear silk! I have a reputation that doesn't involve... whatever this mess is!"

"Whatever this mess is?" Tamsy repeated, a single, hot tear finally spilling over and carving a path through the rain-damp skin of his cheek. He shoved Enjin’s chest, his small hands trembling. "You’re a coward. You’re so obsessed with being 'one of the bros' that you’re willing to kill the only thing that makes you feel alive. You felt it in the car. You felt it in the library. And now you’re trying to bury it under grease and lies because you're scared of what they'll think of you!"

"Shut up!" Enjin roared, the sound vibrating in his own teeth. He lunged forward, grabbing Tamsy’s wrists and pinning them back against the cold, jagged edge of a metal tool cabinet. He loomed over him, his shadow swallowing Tamsy whole. "You don’t get it! You’re rich, you’re beautiful, you can be whoever the hell you want! I’m just a guy from the docks! If I’m not 'the racer,' if I'm not the guy they expect me to be, I’m nothing! I lose everything!"

"You're a liar!" Tamsy sobbed, his face inches from Enjin’s. "You’re looking at my mouth right now and you’re dying inside because you want me more than you want that car! You want me more than you want their approval! Just hit me, or kiss me, or tell me you hate me, but stop ignoring me! I can’t breathe when you ignore me, Enjin... please..."

The snap wasn't loud. It was a silent, internal shattering—the sound of every wall Enjin had built for twenty years collapsing at once.

Enjin lunged.

It wasn't a kiss of love instead it was a desperate, mourning collision. 

He crashed his lips against Tamsy’s with a violence that tasted like salt, copper, and months of repressed agony. It was the sound of a car hitting a wall at a hundred miles per hour. He pressed Tamsy into the metal cabinet so hard the hinges groaned and screamed, his hands sliding up from Tamsy's wrists to grip his jaw, his thumbs digging into the soft skin of his throat—not to hurt, but to anchor himself to the only reality that mattered.

The kiss was frantic and ugly. It was the way a dying man tries to steal the air from someone else's lungs. Enjin’s tongue was a blunt instrument, searching, demanding, and Tamsy met him with an equal, starving ferocity. Tamsy let out a broken, muffled gasp into Enjin’s mouth, his hands instantly finding purchase in Enjin’s hair, fistfuls of dark strands pulled tight as he yanked Enjin closer, trying to merge their bones.

Enjin’s hands moved down, clutching the fabric of Tamsy’s damp coat, pulling the smaller boy flush against him until there wasn't a single millimeter of air left between them. He felt Tamsy’s heart hammering against his ribs a frantic, terrified bird and he realized his own was beating in the exact same rhythm. It was a struggle, a war, a frantic rustle of fabric against cold steel and the ragged, sobbing breaths of two boys who realized that even this even this desperate closeness—wasn't enough to fix the world they were breaking.

Every time their lips parted for a microsecond of air, they crashed back together, terrified that the silence would return if they stopped. Enjin kissed him like a man drowning in the middle of a vast, dark ocean, and Tamsy held him like he was the only piece of wreckage left to cling to.

The pull-apart was worse than the kiss. It was the sound of skin tearing.

Enjin stumbled back, his boots dragging on the concrete. His lips were bruised, swollen, and stinging with the salt of Tamsy’s tears. He looked at Tamsy. The boy looked destroyed. His trench coat was slipping off one shoulder, his white hair was a chaotic halo against the dark metal, and his eyes were wide with a terrifying, empty clarity.

"Tamsy..." Enjin reached out, his hand shaking so violently he had to pull it back.

Tamsy flinched. The movement was small, but it felt like a physical blow to Enjin’s chest.

"Don't," Tamsy whispered. His voice was gone—just a raspy, broken thread that barely held together. He didn't look bratty anymore. He didn't look like a porcelain doll. He looked small. He looked like the ghost Enjin had always called him, fading right before his eyes. "You still can't say it, can you?"

Enjin opened his mouth, but his throat was a desert. The words—I love you, I'm yours, I don't care about them—were caught in the throat of a man who was still too cowardly to be anything but "straight." He looked at Tamsy's face, the pale skin blotchy from crying, and he felt a physical ache in his marrow.

"I... I can't," Enjin choked out, the words tasting like poison.

Tamsy nodded slowly, a ghost of a bitter, tragic smile touching his lips. It was the look of someone who had expected to be disappointed but had hoped for a miracle anyway. He straightened his coat with trembling fingers, his movements robotic. He reached up and wiped the tears from his face with the sleeve of Enjin's hoodie—the one he was still wearing, the one that still smelled like Enjin’s garage.

He didn't say another word. He just turned toward the door.

"Keep the bunker, Enjin," Tamsy said, his back to him. He sounded so calm it was haunting. "The rent is paid for the semester. I won't be back to distract you from your... reputation."

The heavy steel door clicked shut with a finality that felt like a tombstone being lowered.

Enjin stood in the center of the bunker, the silence rushing back in like a flood of freezing water. He looked at his hands—the grease, the oil, the things he thought made him a "man." They felt heavy. They felt like lead.

He walked over to the Red 08, the car he loved more than his own life, and slumped against the front tire. He buried his face in his hands and let out a sound that wasn't a sob—it was the low, gutteral howl of a man who had finally realized he’d won the argument, kept his reputation, stayed "one of the bros," and in doing so, had lost the only light he ever had.

He sat on the cold concrete floor, the smell of Tamsy’s vanilla perfume still lingering in the air, and Enjin finally understood the true cost of a straight line: it leads you exactly where you started, completely and utterly alone.

The silence that followed the bunker incident was different from any silence Enjin had ever known. It wasn’t the peaceful quiet of a finished project or the focused stillness of the starting line. It was a vacuum. It was the sound of a heart trying to beat in a space where all the oxygen had been sucked out.

For forty-eight hours, Enjin was a ghost. He moved through the halls of Saint Akuta’s like a programmed machine. He went to class, he sat in his seat, he stared at the blackboard where the complex integrals of Calculus 2 blurred into gray static. 

He didn't look at Row 3. He couldn't look at Row 3. The empty chair where Tamsy usually sat draped in silk, smelling of vanilla and arrogance—felt like a black hole, threatening to pull Enjin’s entire world into it.

He was failing. Not just Calculus, but the carefully constructed version of himself he’d spent twenty years building.

Every time he closed his eyes, he felt the ghost of Tamsy’s lips against his. Not the sweet, cinematic kiss of a romance novel, but that jagged, desperate collision in the dark. He could still feel the way Tamsy had trembled under his hands—the way the "Ghost" had finally become solid, warm, and real, only for Enjin to push him back into the shadows.

4:30 PM. The Locker Room. The air in the locker room was thick with the scent of cheap body wash, sweat, and the humid steam from the showers. The rest of the soccer team had already filtered out, their loud laughter echoing down the hallway, leaving Enjin alone on the low wooden bench.

He was staring at his cleats. One lace was frayed. He’d been staring at that single frayed thread for ten minutes, unable to find the energy to tie it. His chest felt tight, like a seatbelt that had locked during a crash and refused to let go.

"You're gonna hit someone if you keep zoning out like that, Enj."

Enjin didn't flinch. He knew that voice. He knew the heavy, rhythmic thud of Gris’s sneakers as he walked across the linoleum. Gris didn't say anything at first; he just leaned against the locker opposite Enjin, his arms crossed over his damp jersey.

"I'm fine, Gris," Enjin rasped. His voice sounded like it had been dragged over gravel. He finally reached down to pull the lace, but his fingers felt clumsy, useless.

"You're about as fine as a car with a blown head gasket," Gris said, his voice unusually quiet. "You almost took Zodyl’s head off with a stray pass today. You didn't even notice when the coach called your name. And the worst part? You haven't insulted my driving once in two days. That’s how I know you’re dying inside."

Enjin let out a long, shuddering breath. It wasn't just a sigh; it was a surrender. He dropped the lace and let his hands hang limp between his knees.

"Gris..." Enjin started, his eyes fixed on the floor. "Do you ever feel like you're driving a car that’s built for a track you've never been on? Like you’ve spent your whole life practicing the same turns, the same shifts, thinking you knew exactly where the road ended... and then suddenly, the pavement turns to water?"

He looked up, his eyes bloodshot and filled with a raw, terrifying honesty that he’d never shown anyone.

"I’ve spent my whole life being 'Enjin the Racer.' The straight-edge, no-nonsense, one-of-the-bros guy. It was easy. It made sense. But now..." He swallowed hard, his throat tight. "Now, the manual is written in a language I don't speak. And for some reason, the engine only turns over when I’m with him. And I hate it. I hate how much I need it."

Gris didn't laugh. He didn't make a joke about Tamsy’s expensive shoes or the way he called Enjin 'Butler.' He just looked at his best friend with a blunt, agonizing clarity.

"Bro," Gris said, stepping closer. "You’ve been obsessed with that guy since the first day he walked into class. You think we didn't notice? You think the way you look at him is the same way you look at the girls at the docks? It’s not. You don't even look at the Red 08 with that much hunger."

"I'm not... I'm not gay, Gris," Enjin whispered. It was the last line of defense. The final wall.

"Maybe you aren't. Maybe you're just Tamsy-sexual," Gris shrugged, a small, sad smile playing on his lips. "But stop fighting the friction, man. You’re miserable. He looks like a shell of a person. You’re both sitting in your own separate wrecks, waiting for the other to call the tow truck. Just accept it, Eight. Your 'type' is a white-haired, high-maintenance brat who happens to own your soul. It’s not as deep as the labels you’re terrified of. You’re just a guy who found his person, and you’re too stubborn to admit he doesn’t fit into the box you built for yourself."

Gris patted Enjin’s shoulder—a firm, grounding weight—and walked out, the locker room door swinging shut with a soft thud.

6:00 PM. The Parking Lot. Enjin sat in his SUV, the engine idling. He watched the rain start to streak against the windshield, distorting the world outside into blurred lines of neon and gray.

Gris’s words were echoing in his head. Stop fighting the friction.

In racing, friction is what allows you to turn. Without it, you just slide off the track. Enjin realized he had been sliding for days, terrified of the grip, terrified of what would happen if he actually leaned into the curve.

He thought about the kiss. He thought about the way Tamsy’s salt-streaked face had looked under the flickering lights of the bunker. He thought about the "Peasant Wagon" and the way Tamsy’s presence made even a grocery run feel like an event.

He wasn't "one of the bros" anymore. Not really. He was something else. He was a man who had been haunted by a Ghost, and he finally realized he didn't want to be exorcised.

His hands weren't shaking as he reached for his phone. He didn't go to his contacts. He didn't go to his messages. He went to Instagram. He went to that one profile he looked at every night before he fell asleep.

thetamsy

The most recent post was a photo of a single white rose in a crystal vase. Aesthetic. Cold. Lonely.

Enjin didn't send a DM. He knew Tamsy—Tamsy wouldn't answer a "sorry" text. He wouldn't answer an explanation. Tamsy lived in the world of symbols, of "vibes," of the unsaid.

Enjin scrolled through his own camera roll. He found a photo he’d taken a week ago. It was the bunker, late at night. The Red 08 was in the center, its crimson paint glowing under the dim work lights. In the corner of the frame, you could just see the edge of a white silk sleeve resting on the workbench. It was a messy, raw, uncurated shot.

He posted it to his story.

Caption: The lighting is bad, but the company was better.

It was a public surrender. It was an admission that the "company" was the only thing that made the bunker feel like a home instead of a basement. It was Enjin leaning into the friction.

He locked the phone and threw it onto the passenger seat. He drove home in silence, the rain drumming a rhythmic beat on the roof. He went to his apartment, heated up some literal "peasant" ramen, and sat on his couch, staring at the dark screen of his phone.

One minute. Five minutes. Ten.

Then, the screen lit up. A notification banner across the top.

Instagram • Now : thetamsy liked your story.

Enjin let out a long, slow breath he felt like he’d been holding since Monday morning. A real, genuine smile—the kind that reached his eyes and made his chest feel warm—broke across his face.

The notification was followed by a direct message. No text. Just a single emoji.

Instagram • Now : thetamsy sent a message: 🤍

Enjin leaned his head back against the cushion and closed his eyes. The engine was finally starting to run smooth. He wasn't sure what he was yet, and he didn't know where this road was going, but for the first time in his life, he wasn't afraid of the redline.

3:14 AM. The red notification light on Enjin’s phone was the only thing piercing the suffocating darkness of his room. 

Usually, at this hour, Enjin’s mind was a chaotic blueprint of gear ratios, tire pressures, or the lingering scent of burnt rubber from a late-night run. But tonight, his sleep had been thin, fragmented by the phantom image of Tamsy’s face in the bunker.

When the phone vibrated against the wood of his nightstand, Enjin didn't even grope for it. His hand shot out with the reflex of a racer catching a skid.

He expected a biting remark. A demand for a late-night "aesthetic" snack. A condescending comment about a Calculus problem he’d solved incorrectly.

Instead, he heard breathing. Ragged, wet, and terrifyingly shallow.

"Enjin..." Tamsy’s voice was a ghost of itself, thin and trembling, stripped of every ounce of its usual porcelain armor. "I think... I think the lights are too loud. They won’t stop screaming."

Enjin sat bolt upright, the heavy blankets tangling around his legs like a trap. The hair on his arms stood up. "Tamsy? What are you talking about? Where are the lights? Where are you?"

"My room. The floor is cold... but I can't get up to reach the bed. Everything is shaking." A small, hitched breath that sounded dangerously like a sob. "I don't like it here tonight, Enjin. This house... it’s too big. It feels like it’s swallowing me."

The line went dead with a soft, final click.

Enjin didn't think. He didn't check the time, he didn't grab a jacket, and he didn't wonder if he was overstepping. He threw on the first thing he found—the black hoodie with the "Red 08" embroidery, the one Tamsy practically lived in lately—and sprinted to his SUV.

He drove to the West Wing with a reckless, white-knuckled speed that would have earned him a lifetime ban from the docks. His heart wasn't just racing; it was hammering against his ribs in a blind, primal panic. The "straight line" he had tried to live by for twenty years was gone. There was only the road to the mansion.

The Caines estate was a tomb of white marble and expensive silence under the moonlight. Enjin didn't bother with the front door; he knew the side entrance security code Tamsy had absentmindedly complained about during a study session. He slipped inside, his heavy boots echoing on the polished stone floors like a heartbeat in an empty chest.

He found Tamsy in the master suite, a room that looked more like a cold museum gallery than a place where someone actually slept. Tamsy was curled into a small, shivering ball on the edge of the massive king-sized bed, half-slid onto the floor. His silver-white hair was fanned out against the white silk sheets like spilled milk, and his skin was a terrifying, feverish pink.

"Tamsy," Enjin whispered, dropping to his knees so hard they bruised against the floor. He reached out, pressing his palm to Tamsy’s forehead.

He hissed. It was like touching the hood of a car after a desert sprint.

"Enjin?" Tamsy’s eyes fluttered open, but they were glassy, unfocused, and swimming with a delirious haze. He reached out a trembling hand, his fingers clutching the sleeve of Enjin’s hoodie. "You’re wearing it. My hoodie. It smells like the bunker. It smells like... you."

"It’s my hoodie, you brat," Enjin choked out, his throat tight with a sudden, overwhelming surge of protectiveness. There was no heat in his words. His chest felt like it was being squeezed by a hydraulic press. "God, Tamsy, you’re burning up. Why didn't you call the staff? Where are your parents?"

"Maid is off for the weekend... Mom is in Dubai for the gala," Tamsy murmured, his head lulling back against Enjin’s arm. He let out a dry, rattling cough that shook his entire frame. "The house is too quiet. I thought... if I died here, nobody would hear the silence break. They’d just find a very aesthetic corpse in three days."

The words hit Enjin harder than the angry make-out ever could. He looked around the cold, gold-trimmed, empty room and realized the truth: for all the silk and diamonds, Tamsy was just a lonely kid shivering in a house that didn't know how to hold him.

"You're not dying," Enjin said firmly, his voice deep and grounding. "I’m here. I’ve got you. Do you hear me? I’m not going anywhere."

The next hour was a blur of a domesticity Enjin never thought he was capable of. He moved with a quiet, efficient tenderness, his "mechanical" hands becoming soft. He carried Tamsy, who felt as light as a handful of feathers, to the bathroom, sitting him on the edge of the marble tub while he ran a cool cloth over his neck, his face, and his pulse points.

Tamsy was delirious, leaning his forehead against Enjin’s shoulder, muttering incoherent things about "peasant tea" and how Enjin’s hands were "too rough but okay." Enjin didn't say a word; he just wiped away the sweat and the tears, his heart breaking a little more with every shiver that wracked Tamsy’s body.

He eventually moved him back to the bed, tucking the heavy silk duvet around him until only Tamsy’s pale face was visible. Enjin went down to the kitchen—a cold, industrial space that clearly saw very little life—and searched until he found a single can of broth and some fresh ginger.

When he returned to the bedroom with a steaming bowl, Tamsy was staring at the ceiling, his eyes finally starting to track.

"Drink this," Enjin commanded softly, sitting on the edge of the mattress and lifting Tamsy’s head to rest in the crook of his arm.

"Is it... artisanal? Is it curated?" Tamsy whispered, his voice a thready rasp.

"It’s the best a 'butler' can do at 4 AM," Enjin replied, blowing on a spoonful of the broth before holding it to Tamsy’s lips.

He fed Tamsy slowly, spoonful by spoonful. The silence in the mansion was no longer a tomb; it was filled with the soft clink of the porcelain and the steady, rhythmic breathing of two people who had finally stopped fighting. As the warmth of the broth settled in, Tamsy’s shivering began to subside. The glassiness in his eyes faded, replaced by a soft, raw lucidity that made Enjin feel completely exposed.

"Enjin?"

"Yeah?"

"About the bunker..." Tamsy started, his hand reaching out from under the covers to clutch Enjin’s wrist. "I didn't mean it. About not coming back. I was... I was just so tired of being the only one who admitted that this was happening."

Enjin set the bowl on the nightstand. He looked down at the boy in his lap—the "Ghost" who had haunted his dreams, ruined his peace, and somehow become the most important thing in his world.

"I know," Enjin whispered, his voice rough with unshed tears. He reached down, his thumb tracing the delicate line of Tamsy’s jaw. "I’m sorry, Tamsy. I’m a coward. I was so scared of what I was becoming—so scared of losing the 'bro' I thought I had to be—that I forgot to care about the person I was actually losing. I'm so sorry I looked through you. I promise... I will never make you feel invisible again. Not ever."

Tamsy looked up at him, his white lashes wet and clumped together. "You were so mean last Monday. I hated you."

"I was an idiot," Enjin corrected, a stray tear finally escaping and landing on the duvet. "The biggest, blindest idiot in the whole department."

Tamsy let out a tiny, weak laugh that sounded more like a sigh. He leaned up, his forehead resting against Enjin’s, their breaths mingling in the quiet air. "Kiss me, Enjin. Not like the bunker. Not the angry kind. Not the kind where you’re trying to prove you’re still in control."

Enjin didn't hesitate. He leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering peck to the tip of Tamsy’s nose. Then he kissed each of Tamsy’s closed eyelids, his lips barely brushing the skin. It was an apology. It was a prayer.

When he finally reached Tamsy’s lips, it was slow. It was deep, warm, and humming with a sweetness that made Enjin’s head spin. This wasn't about friction or heat; it was about the relief of finally stopping the car. Enjin tasted the lingering warmth of the fever and the salt of Tamsy’s skin, but he didn't pull away. He pulled Tamsy closer, his arms wrapping around the smaller boy's waist, holding him as if he were the only thing keeping Enjin grounded to the earth.

The kiss went on for minutes—a slow, rhythmic surrender that drowned out every doubt Enjin had ever had. When they finally broke apart, Tamsy’s face was still flushed, but his smile was the most beautiful thing Enjin had ever seen. He tucked his head under Enjin’s chin, his hands gripping the fabric of the hoodie like a lifeline.

"You're still such a peasant," Tamsy mumbled, his voice trailing off as sleep finally claimed him in the safety of Enjin’s arms.

Enjin leaned back against the headboard, pulling Tamsy’s head onto his chest. He stroked the boy’s white hair, watching the rise and fall of his breath.

"Yeah," Enjin whispered into the dark, quiet room. "But I'm your peasant. And I'm not going anywhere."

7:39 AM. The first thing Enjin felt was the light—not the harsh, buzzing fluorescent light of the Engineering lab, but a soft, expensive gold that filtered through the sheer silk curtains of the Caines mansion. It felt like being submerged in honey.

The second thing he felt was the weight. There was a slight, warm pressure against his chest, and a rhythmic, tiny puff of air hitting the skin of his neck.

Enjin opened his eyes, and for a second, his brain short-circuited. He wasn’t in his cramped apartment. He wasn't in the bunker. He was propped up against a mountain of pillows that probably cost more than his tuition, and Tamsy Caines was fast asleep in his arms.

Tamsy looked different in the morning light. The fever had broken, leaving his skin a soft, healthy porcelain instead of that terrifying flush. His white hair was a complete disaster, sticking up in every direction, and his mouth was slightly parted. He looked less like a "Ghost" and more like a human boy who had finally found a place to rest.

Enjin’s heart did a slow, heavy roll in his chest. He knew he should get up. He should leave before the staff arrived, before the reality of "The Racer and the Ghost" came crashing back. But then Tamsy shifted in his sleep, his nose rubbing against Enjin’s collarbone, and his hand—still clutching the fabric of Enjin’s hoodie—tightened its grip.

"Don't go..." Tamsy mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

Enjin froze. "You're awake?"

Tamsy peered up at him through messy white lashes, his eyes half-lidded and dreamy. He didn't pull away. In fact, he wiggled closer, tucking his cold feet between Enjin’s legs.

"I'm awake enough to know that you're thinking about running away," Tamsy whispered. He reached up, his fingers tracing the sharp line of Enjin’s jaw, lingering on the stubble there. "Your brain is making that loud, 'I-have-to-be-straight-and-productive' noise again. It’s very distracting."

Enjin let out a breathy laugh, his hand instinctively coming up to rest on the small of Tamsy’s back. "I’m not running. I just... I don't want to get caught. What if your mom comes back from Dubai early? What do I say? 'Hi, I'm the guy who fixes your son's car and also sleeps in his silk sheets'?"

Tamsy smirked, a tiny flash of the old bratty Ghost returning. "You'd say, 'Hi, I'm the butler, and I'm currently occupied.' She’d probably just ask you to bring her a mimosa."

Tamsy sat up slightly, straddling Enjin’s lap while remaining cocooned in the duvet. The height difference was gone now; they were eye-to-eye. Tamsy reached out and adjusted the hood of the sweatshirt Enjin was wearing—the one Tamsy had basically stolen.

"You stayed," Tamsy said, his voice dropping the playful tone. He looked at Enjin with an intensity that made Enjin’s lungs feel small. "The fever was bad, Enjin. I said things. I cried like a commoner."

"You were human, Tamsy," Enjin said softly. He reached out, tucking a stray lock of white hair behind Tamsy’s ear. "And for the record? I liked it. I mean, I hated that you were sick, but I liked that you let me see the part of you that isn't... curated."

Tamsy leaned forward, his forehead pressing against Enjin’s. "It’s a secret, Enjin. This. Us. You know that, right? If the boys at the docks find out you’re domesticating a Caines, your reputation is dead."

"My reputation died the moment I posted that Instagram story," Enjin admitted, his voice a low rumble. "Gris already knows. Zodyl probably suspects. And honestly? I don't think I care anymore. I’m tired of driving in a straight line, Tamsy. It’s boring."

Tamsy’s eyes shimmered. He didn't wait for Enjin this time. He leaned in and pressed a soft, slow peck to Enjin’s lips. Then another. And another. Each one was light, tasting like sleep and peppermint, until Enjin groaned and tilted his head, deepening the kiss.

It wasn't like the bunker. It wasn't a collision. It was a slow, steady idle—the sound of a high-performance engine finally finding its rhythm. Enjin’s hands slid up Tamsy’s back, feeling the delicate heat of his skin through his thin silk pajamas. He pulled Tamsy flush against him, his lips moving with a newfound confidence.

Tamsy let out a soft hum against Enjin’s mouth, his fingers tangling in the dark hair at the nape of Enjin’s neck. He tasted like a recovery. Like a beginning.

When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathing a little harder. Tamsy’s cheeks were pink again, but this time, it wasn't from a fever.

"Okay," Tamsy whispered, his thumb brushing over Enjin’s swollen lower lip. "You can stay for breakfast. But you have to make those peasant eggs you told me about. The ones with the cheap cheese."

Enjin laughed, pulling Tamsy back down into a hug, burying his face in the crook of the boy’s neck. "They're called scrambled eggs, Tamsy. And yeah. I’ll make them."

"Good," Tamsy said, closing his eyes and melting into the embrace. "And Enjin?"

"Yeah?"

"Wear the hoodie. I like the way it looks on you when you’re in my kitchen."

Enjin smiled into Tamsy’s shoulder. The road ahead was winding, dangerous, and completely unmapped—but as he held the Ghost in the golden morning light, Enjin realized he had never been more ready to drive.

The atmosphere in the Engineering Grand Hall was thick with the scent of cheap coffee, eraser dust, and the collective anxiety of eighty students facing the Calculus Midterms. It was a three-hour marathon of integration, derivatives, and soul-crushing physics.

Enjin was in the zone. He had his sleeves rolled up, revealing the veins in his forearms as he scrawled out a complex volume-of-revolution problem. He was determined. He was focused. He was...

He was being stared at.

Tamsy Caines was sitting exactly one chair away, separated only by a narrow wooden gap. He looked effortlessly stunning even in an exam hall, wearing a cream-colored turtleneck that made his white hair look like spun sugar. He was leaning his chin on his hand, twirling a high-end fountain pen, and looking at Enjin with an expression that was halfway between boredom and mischief.

Enjin pointedly ignored him. Focus, Enjin. The redline is the limit. Solve for x.

Suddenly, a soft, frustrated huff came from the right. Tamsy began shaking his pen aggressively. He tapped it against the desk. He looked at the tip with a dramatic pout. Then, he leaned over, way further than a "socially acceptable" distance for an exam.

"Butler," Tamsy whispered, the sound barely a breath, but it hit Enjin’s ear like a lightning bolt. "My pen. It’s dead. It has ceased to be aesthetic."

"Shh!" Enjin hissed, his face heating up. "Borrow one from the proctor."

"No. Their pens are plastic. They’ll give me a blister," Tamsy whispered back, his eyes dancing with a challenge. "Give me yours. The one in your pocket."

Enjin groaned internally. He reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a spare pilot pen. He didn't hand it over the desk where the proctor could see. Instead, he reached down, passing it through the shadows beneath the long, shared wooden table.

He expected Tamsy to just grab it. He was wrong.

Under the desk, hidden from the world, Tamsy’s hand didn't just take the pen. His slender, cool fingers wrapped around Enjin’s hand, pulling it toward his own lap. Enjin’s heart did a violent somersault. He tried to pull back, but Tamsy’s grip was surprisingly firm.

Tamsy’s fingers began to trace the rough, calloused palm of Enjin’s hand—the "mechanical" hands he claimed to hate—drawing slow, lazy circles.

"Tamsy, stop," Enjin mouthed, his eyes wide as he stared at his exam paper. He was currently trying to integrate a function, but his brain had forgotten what a number was.

Tamsy didn't stop. He leaned back in his chair, looking perfectly innocent to anyone watching from above, but underneath, he shifted his leg. His knee, covered in expensive slacks, pressed firmly against Enjin’s denim-clad thigh. He didn't just brush it; he leaned into it, creating a point of heat that made Enjin’s entire lower half feel like it was on fire.

Pulse: 140 BPM. Vision: Blurring. Calculus: Impossible.

Enjin was sweating. He looked at his paper. It should be a normal math equation, but Enjin can see it differently.

The integral of 'I'm going to die' with respect to x is Tamsy Caines plus the constant C. (in equation form)

[explanation: the "sum" of all his panic and the "rate of change" in his heart leads to one constant result: Tamsy Caines. The + C is the "constant" in calculus, implying that no matter what happens, Tamsy is the permanent factor in his life now] a/n: sorry haha, this is just really important for the story progress.

"Give me... the pen..." Enjin whispered through gritted teeth.

Tamsy finally took the pen, but as he did, his fingers slid slowly down the length of Enjin's, his pinky hooking into Enjin’s for a fleeting, agonizing second. It was a secret mark. A claim made in the middle of a crowded room.

Tamsy pulled back, finally clicking the pen and starting to write with a smug, satisfied smirk.

Enjin, on the other hand, was a wreck. His hand was still hovering in the air under the desk, tingling from the contact. His leg was vibrating. He looked at the clock, two hours left. He looked at his exam, he had only finished Page 1.

He glanced at Tamsy. The white-haired boy was breezing through the equations, looking as cool as a winter morning. He noticed Enjin looking and didn't turn his head, but he did something worse.

He stretched his legs out under the table, hooking his foot behind Enjin’s ankle and pulling it slightly toward him.

I am going to fail this class, Enjin thought, his heart thudding so loudly he was sure the Professor could hear it. And I’m going to thank him for it.

He took a deep breath, gripped his own pen until his knuckles turned white, and tried to focus on the math. But every time his knee brushed Tamsy’s, or he felt that foot hooked around his ankle, a jagged, electric thrill shot up his spine.

It was here, in the silence of the exam hall, where every secret touch felt like a roar.

When the bell finally rang, Enjin scrambled to turn in his paper, his signature looking like a jagged EKG line. He bolted for the exit, needing air, needing to escape the suffocating pull of the boy in Row 3.

"Enjin! Wait up!"

Tamsy caught up to him in the hallway, looking radiant while everyone else looked like zombies. He handed the pen back, his fingers lingering on Enjin’s palm as he dropped it there.

"Thanks for the pen, Butler," Tamsy whispered, leaning in so close his white hair tickled Enjin’s ear. "You looked very... focused. Your pulse was jumping in your neck. It was very distracting for my 'aesthetic' concentration."

"I hate you," Enjin breathed, though his hand was already reaching out to steady Tamsy by the waist.

"Liar," Tamsy smirked. "You love the friction. See you in the bunker?"

Enjin watched him walk away, the black "Red 08" hoodie swaying with Tamsy’s hips. He looked down at his hand—the pen was still warm from Tamsy’s grip.

"Yeah," Enjin whispered to the empty hall. "See you in the bunker."

3:39 AM. The bunker was cold, but the air was thick with the scent of motor oil and the low hum of the portable heater. Enjin was sitting on a low stool, his back aching, staring at the exposed wiring of the Red 08. The adrenaline from the exam had long since faded, replaced by a hollow, quiet exhaustion.

The heavy steel door groaned open.

Enjin didn't even turn around. He knew the rhythm of those footsteps—they were lighter than his, more deliberate. He heard the crinkle of a plastic carrier bag.

Tamsy didn't make a grand entrance. He didn't complain about the dust or the "peasant" lighting. He simply walked over and sat down directly on the oil-stained concrete floor right next to Enjin’s boots. He was wearing an oversized cream sweater and thick socks—no silk, no designer trench coat. Just Tamsy.

"You're going to ruin that sweater," Enjin said softly, finally looking down.

"It’s just wool, Enjin. It can be replaced," Tamsy replied, handing him a condensation-covered cup. "You, however, look like you're about to short-circuit. Drink your caffeine."

It was a white chocolate mocha—extra shots, just the way Enjin liked it.

Enjin took a sip, the sugar hitting his system like a jump-start. He slid off his stool and sat on the floor beside Tamsy, their shoulders brushing. For the first time, there was no bickering. No masks. Just two boys sitting in the belly of a garage in the middle of the night.

"What are you going to do after this?" Enjin asked, staring at the red paint of his car. "After Saint Akuta’s? After the Calculus, and the mansions?"

Tamsy leaned his head back against the cold metal of the tool cabinet. "My father wants me to handle the firm's logistics. To turn art into spreadsheets. He wants me to be a statue in a suit." He looked at his pale hands, then at Enjin’s grease-stained ones. "I think I’d rather be a ghost in a bunker."

Enjin looked at him, really looked at him. "You’re too loud to be a statue, Tamsy. You’re meant to build things. To break things."

"And you?" Tamsy whispered. "The Red 08? The professional circuit?"

"I want to drive," Enjin said, his voice firm. "But I don't want to drive alone anymore. I think... I think I've been racing toward a finish line that didn't exist until I met you."

The honesty hung in the air, sweet and heavy. Tamsy reached out, his pinky hooking into Enjin’s—the same way he had under the desk—but this time, it was slow, steady, and certain.

The quiet was shattered by the aggressive vibration of Tamsy’s phone on the concrete. Tamsy checked the screen and sighed, a small, tired smile on his lips.

"It's Riyo," Tamsy said. He hit speaker. "Yes, Riyo? It is three in the morning. Why are you screaming?"

"Tamsy! You won't believe it!" Riyo’s voice exploded through the phone, sounding frantic and annoyed. "My brother is not home. AGAIN! He’s probably out with some random girl or at some illegal race in the mud. I’m telling you, Tamsy, I’m going to lock him out of the house. I am so tired of being the only responsible one in this family!"

Tamsy let out a soft, melodic laugh, looking at Enjin with mischievous eyes. "Riyo, darling, breathe. Maybe he’s just... occupied."

"Occupied with what? Stupidity? Engines? I swear, if he comes home smelling like gasoline one more time—"

Tamsy suddenly smirked and handed the phone to Enjin. Enjin’s eyes went wide. He shook his head frantically, but Tamsy just winked, mouthing: Go on, Butler.

"Riyo," Enjin said, his voice deep and calm.

The silence on the other end of the line was instantaneous. It was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

"...Enjin?" Riyo’s voice was small, confused, and slowly rising in pitch. "Wait. Why are you on Tamsy’s phone? Why is it three in the morning? Why are you guys together? Did he kidnap you? Are you fixing his sink?"

Tamsy leaned into the phone, his voice clear and sounding more confident than Enjin had ever heard it. "He’s not fixing my sink, Riyo. He’s here because I love him."

Enjin’s heart stopped. He expected Tamsy to say "He's my friend" or "He's helping me study." But the "L" word? In front of Riyo?

"WHAT?!" Riyo screamed. "Tamsy! Is he toying with you? Is he making you sit on the floor? I knew it! I am going to kick his ass! Enjin, if you hurt my friend, I will dismantle your car with my bare hands!"

Enjin took the phone back, his hand steady even though his pulse was racing. He looked Tamsy in the eyes—those beautiful, arrogant, honest eyes—and made his choice.

"Riyo," Enjin said, his voice dropping into a tone of absolute surrender. "I’m sorry. You can kick my ass later. But I’m in love with your friend. And I’m not letting him go."

On the other end, Riyo made a sound like a dying bird. "I... I need to sit down. I’m just dreaming right.”

Click.

Tamsy leaned over, laughing so hard he had to rest his head on Enjin’s shoulder. Enjin pulled him close, kissing the top of his white hair.

"You're dead," Tamsy giggled. "Riyo is definitely going to kill you."

"Worth it," Enjin whispered, pulling Tamsy into his lap. "Totally worth it."

He didn't care about the oil stains on his pants or the fact that Tamsy’s expensive wool sweater was bunching up. He just needed him close.

Tamsy didn't resist. He sat sideways across Enjin’s thighs, his arms naturally winding around Enjin’s neck. He looked smaller like this, stripped of his height and his "Ghost" persona. In the dim, amber glow of the workbench lamp, Tamsy’s skin looked like polished marble, and his eyes were dark with a soft, hazy warmth.

"You're a dead man, you know," Tamsy whispered, his breath puffing against the shell of Enjin’s ear. "Riyo has a very long memory for things like this."

"Let her come," Enjin rumbled, his voice vibrating deep in his chest. "I’ve survived crashes at a hundred miles an hour. I think I can handle your best friend."

Enjin’s hands, still rough and slightly stained with the day’s work, slid under the hem of Tamsy’s oversized sweater. He expected Tamsy to flinch at the coldness of his fingers, but the boy only let out a shaky, melodic hum, arching his back as Enjin’s palms settled against the warm, bare skin of his waist.

The contrast was staggering. Enjin felt heavy, solid, and rugged; Tamsy felt like silk and glass.

"Your heart is still going fast," Tamsy murmured, pulling back just enough to look at Enjin. He reached out, his slender fingers tracing the racing pulse in Enjin’s neck, before sliding down to the center of his chest. He pressed his palm flat against the fabric of Enjin’s hoodie, right over his heart. "It’s louder than the engine."

"That’s your fault," Enjin admitted, his voice dropping into a rougher, more intimate register.

He leaned in, his nose brushing against Tamsy’s. He didn't go for a kiss immediately. Instead, he nuzzled into the crook of Tamsy’s neck, inhaling the scent that had haunted him for months—vanilla, expensive laundry soap, and that faint, sharp tang of the rain still clinging to his hair. Enjin’s lips grazed the sensitive skin just below Tamsy's ear, making the smaller boy shiver violently.

"Enjin..." Tamsy’s voice was a broken rasp. He pulled Enjin’s head back up, his eyes searching Enjin’s with a raw, terrifying vulnerability. "Don't just... don't be a coward again tomorrow. If the sun comes up and you go back to being 'the racer' who doesn't know me..."

Enjin didn't let him finish. He captured Tamsy’s lips in a kiss that was slow, deep, and devastatingly honest. It wasn't the frantic struggle of the bunker door or the playful tease of the exam hall. It was a promise.

Enjin’s tongue tasted the lingering sweetness of the mocha, his teeth grazing Tamsy’s lower lip just enough to draw a soft, desperate whimper from the back of the boy's throat. Tamsy’s hands tangled in Enjin’s dark hair, pulling him closer as if he were trying to pull Enjin’s very soul into his lungs.

He shifted his weight, straddling Enjin’s lap completely now. The friction of Tamsy’s legs against Enjin’s hips sent a jolt of pure fire through Enjin’s veins. He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against Tamsy’s, both of them gasping for air in the cramped space.

"I’m done with the straight lines, Ghost," Enjin breathed, his hands sliding up Tamsy’s spine, feeling every delicate vertebra. "From now on, I’m only driving where you are. I don't care who sees. I don't care who's calling."

Tamsy let out a soft, happy sob—a sound that was half-laugh, half-cry. He buried his face in Enjin’s neck, his teeth nipping lightly at the tendon there, a small, possessive mark of his own.

"Good," Tamsy whispered into the darkness. "Because I’m not letting anyone else sit in my passenger seat."

They stayed there for a long time, tangled together on the greasy floor, the "Red 08" standing guard over them.

 In the 3 AM quiet of the bunker, they weren't the Racer or the Ghost. They were just two people who had finally stopped running and found themselves exactly where they were meant to be.

The morning after the 3 AM coffee—and much to Enjin’s quiet astonishment—he woke up in his own bed, alone. Tamsy, true to his word, hadn't held him hostage. He'd simply kissed him goodnight at the bunker door, a soft, lingering promise, and then vanished into the pre-dawn mist. Enjin had driven home in a daze, feeling lighter than air, the memory of Tamsy’s body in his lap a sweet, intimate ache.

He woke up feeling… happy. Genuinely, terrifyingly, irreversibly happy.

He rolled over, grabbed his phone, and saw the first sign of impending doom.

[Group Chat: The Redline Crew]

Gris [7:03 AM] : @thetamsy just posted a story.

 Zodyl [7:04 AM]: Oh my GOD. 

Corvus [7:04 AM]: WHAT IS THAT. 

Gris [7:05 AM]: @Enjin. You see this??

Enjin[7:05 AM]:?

Enjin’s blood ran cold. Tamsy had posted a story? After what they’d just shared? His thumb trembled as he clicked the Instagram icon, navigating to Tamsy’s profile.

The story was a photo dump—a "morning after" aesthetic montage. A half-eaten bowl of Enjin’s scrambled eggs with cheap cheese, artfully arranged next to a high-end coffee mug. A blurry selfie of Tamsy wrapped in a duvet, his messy white hair obscuring half his face, looking soft and adorable. And then, the final slide.

It was a close-up shot. A pair of hands, rough, strong, and unmistakably stained with grease and motor oil, gripping a racing-style steering wheel. A flash of the Red 08’s crimson dashboard was visible in the background. The hands were unmistakably Enjin’s. He would recognize those calluses anywhere.

The caption under the photo was simple, almost innocent.

thetamsy: Some mornings are just better than others. 😌🍳🏎️✨

Enjin’s phone started exploding in his hand. The group chat was already a warzone.

[Group Chat: The Redline Crew]

Zodyl [7:06 AM]: WHOSE HANDS ARE THOSE. 

Corvus  [7:07 AM]: TELL ME THAT IS NOT WHO I THINK IT IS. 

Regto  [7:07 AM]: @EnjinK. YOU GOT SOME EXPLAINING TO DO, BRO. 

Zodyl [7:08 AM]: THE RED 08 DASHBOARD! THE GREASE! THE HOODIE IN THE LAST STORY! 

Gountess [7:08 AM]: IS THAT WHY YOU MISSED PRACTICE YESTERDAY?! BECAUSE YOU WERE BUSY BEING A... A PEASANT-BOYFRIEND?! 

Enjin [7:09 AM]: It’s not what it looks like. 

Corvua [7:09 AM]: It looks like you spent the night at the Caines mansion, Enjin. 

Zodyl [7:10 AM]: And then made him eggs. 

Gris [7:10 AM] : Hahahaha Lol

Gountess [7:10 AM]: AND YOU KISSED HIM IN THE BUNKER! DON'T LIE! 

Enjin [7:11 AM]: Everyone, please, calm down.

Enjin’s heart was hammering against his ribs. He felt a wave of icy panic. This wasn't how he planned to come out. This wasn't how he planned to tell his friends. It was a digital explosion, a "Hard Launch" he hadn't approved, and he felt utterly exposed.

He quickly called Tamsy. The line rang twice, then Tamsy’s smooth, annoyingly calm voice answered.

"Good morning, Butler," Tamsy purred, a hint of amusement in his tone. "Did you sleep well? You seem... agitated."

"Tamsy, what the hell did you do?!" Enjin hissed, pulling the phone away from his ear as another notification from the group chat went off. "My entire life just exploded! My friends think I'm dating you!"

"Oh?" Tamsy said, sounding far too innocent. "And is that so terrible? I thought we agreed that the 'straight line' was boring. And besides, I believe your direct quote was, 'I'm done with the straight lines, Ghost. From now on, I’m only driving where you are.'"

"You can't just 'hard launch' our... whatever this is... on Instagram!"

"Why not?" Tamsy’s voice was suddenly colder, losing its playful edge. "Were you going to wait until your 'reputation' was safe again? Because I'm quite tired of being a secret, Enjin. I thought we established that last night, too."

Enjin flinched. The words hit him hard. Tamsy was right. He had been so focused on the panic of being exposed that he hadn't considered the relief Tamsy must be feeling, or the quiet strength it took to put that picture out there.

[Group Chat: The Redline Crew]

Zodyl [7:15 AM]: @Enjin. You better be on your way to the garage. We need answers.

 Gris [7:15 AM]: And coffee hahahahaha. This is going to be a long day. 

Regto  [7:16 AM]: I'M COMING FOR YOU, ENJIN . YOU ARE DEAD.

Enjin sighed, running a hand through his hair. He looked at Tamsy’s profile picture—the soft, slightly pouty smile.

"Fine," Enjin said into the phone, his voice laced with resignation, but also a strange, buzzing excitement. "You win. But you owe me a lifetime supply of white chocolate mochas for this."

“I really haven’t ask you about it… but yeah, I love you, Tamsy Caines.”

“Oh yes, I know that, silly, you didn’t have to tell me. I love you too” Tamsy replied. "A fair price for my emotional well-being," Tamsy added, and Enjin could practically hear the smirk. "Now, go face your adoring public, darling. I have an 'aesthetic crisis' to attend to before class."

As Enjin hung up, he looked at the group chat again. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, but he didn't type a denial. He typed something else.

[Group Chat: The Redline Crew]

Enjin [7:18 AM]: Be there in 20. 

He closed the app, took a deep breath, and slid out of bed. The chaos was already here. And for the first time, Enjin felt a strange, exhilarating sense of freedom. 

The air at the soccer fields was thick with the scent of freshly cut grass and impending doom. Enjin was trying to keep his head down, focusing intensely on his footwork, dribbling the ball across the turf with a desperate, manic energy. He was trying to prove he was still "The Racer." Still "The Bro." Still "Straight-Line Enjin."

But he could feel them.

Arkha and Zodyl weren’t even practicing. They were leaning against the goalpost, arms crossed, matching smirks plastered on their faces as they watched Enjin’s every move like a pair of suspicious detectives in a low-budget cop movie.

"You're late, Enjin," Arkha called out, his voice dripping with a mock-innocence that made the hair on Enjin’s neck stand up. "Rough night? Or was the 'scenery' at the mansion just too high-definition to leave?"

"I overslept," Enjin grunted, over-kicking a ball so hard it cleared the ten-foot fence and disappeared into the parking lot. "Drop it, Corrvus."

"Oh, we'll drop it," Zodyl chimed in, pushing off the goalpost and walking toward the sidelines where their gear was piled up. "Right after we find out why your gym bag—which usually smells like wet dog and failure—suddenly smells like a high-end French boutique."

Enjin’s heart did a terrifying wheel-spin. He realized too late that he had left his bag unzipped. "Don't touch my bag, Zodyl! That’s a violation of bro-code!"

"Bro-code went out the window when you were posted a picture of your greasy hands on a silk bedsheet, Enj!" Zodyl shouted. He reached into the side pocket and pulled out a small, sleek, gold-capped tube. It looked like it belonged in a jewelry case, not a sweat-stained duffel.

"What's this?" Zodyl held it up like a piece of evidence at a murder trial. "Le Baume de Rose? Dior? Since when do you use luxury lip treatment that costs more than a set of spark plugs?"

"It's... it's for my chapped lips! The wind on the track is brutal this time of year!" Enjin scrambled toward them, his cleats clattering aggressively on the pavement.

Arkha snatched the tube from Zodyl, uncapping it and taking a deep, theatrical sniff. "This doesn't smell like 'track wind,' bro. This smells like Tamsy Caines. Specifically, the Tamsy Caines who was sitting in your lap in that blurry photo. Is this his? Did you steal a souvenir?"

"He forgot it in the car!" Enjin shouted, his lies starting to pile up like a multi-car collision on a foggy highway. "I was just... keeping it safe! For security reasons!"

"Security reasons," Arkha repeated, deadpan. He reached into the bag again and pulled out a receipt. "And is it for 'security' that you bought a $15 white chocolate mocha this morning? With four pumps of vanilla, oat milk, and—oh my god—edible gold flakes?"

Zodyl let out a high-pitched wheeze. "Edible gold? Enjin, you drink black coffee from a rusty thermos! You call anything with sugar 'dessert for losers'!"

"I'm expanding my palate!" Enjin bellowed, his face turning a shade of red that rivaled the paint on the Red 08. "I’m a refined man now! I like the way the vanilla balances the... the bitterness of my engineering soul! It’s about contrast! It’s about physics!"

"Physics?" Arkha laughed so hard he had to lean on Zodyl for support. "Is that what we're calling 'The Hard Launch' now? Enjin, look at yourself. You’re literally wearing your hoodie inside out, and there is a single, silver-white hair stuck to your collar. Right. There."

Enjin panicked, eyes going wide as he started swatting at his own neck like he was being attacked by a wasp. "It’s a... it's a thread! From a towel! A very expensive, 1000-thread-count, silk-blend towel!"

"Wait," Zodyl said, his voice dropping to a whisper of pure awe as he dug even deeper into the bag. "Is this... a hand-drawn map of the Caines mansion’s garden with 'Safety Exit' written in Tamsy’s handwriting?"

Enjin lunged for the bag, but he slipped on a stray soccer ball, landing flat on his back with an undignified thud.

"Just admit it, Enj," Gris said, towering over him, grinning ear to ear. "You're whipped. You’re Tamsy-whipped. You’ve gone full 'Butler.' You probably know his entire ten-step skincare routine by heart now, don't you?"

"I don't!" Enjin yelled from the ground, his arms flailing. "I only know he uses a three-step hydration process involving rosewater and hyaluronic acid because he has 'sensitive aristocratic pores' and he hates the texture of cheap sunscreen because it makes him feel 'clogged and un-aesthetic'!"

The silence that followed was deafening.

Arkha and Zodyl stared at him for three seconds. Four. Then, the explosion.

"UN-AESTHETIC?!" Zodyl screamed, doubling over and literally rolling on the grass. "SENSITIVE PORES?! He’s gone! Our top racer is worried about pores!"

"I’m not obsessed!" Enjin yelled, scrambling to his feet, his dignity in tatters. "I just listen when he talks because his voice is... is a very specific high-frequency and it’s hard to ignore for auditory data collection purposes! It’s science!"

"Auditory data collection," Arkha wheezed, wiping actual tears from his eyes. "Is that what you were doing at 3 AM in his lap? Collecting data with your mouth?"

"I hate both of you! I'm leaving! I'm going to the showers to be alone with my 'bitter soul'!" Enjin snatched his Dior lip balm back, his hand shaking, and shoved it deep into his pocket.

"Don't forget to moisturize your 'aristocratic pores', Butler!" Zodyl hollered as Enjin retreated toward the locker rooms. "Wouldn't want to feel clogged before the big race!"

As Enjin slammed the locker room door shut, he leaned his forehead against the cool, dented metal. He was a mess. His reputation was a smoking wreck. He was a 200-pound, grease-stained racer who was currently carrying a rose-scented lip balm like it was a holy relic.

He pulled the tube out, looking at the gold cap. He could almost hear Tamsy’s voice calling him a "peasant" for using it. Despite the chaos, despite the fact that his friends were going to roast him for the next ten years, a small, traitorous, and incredibly soft smile tugged at his lips.

He uncapped the balm and applied it.

"Refined man," he whispered to his reflection in the cracked mirror, then sighed. "God, I’m so far gone."

1:19 PM. The sun was hitting the gold trim of the Caines mansion with an aggressive brightness that Enjin felt was personally mocking him. He slipped through the side entrance, moving like a man who had just escaped a crime scene. His hair was a disaster, his soccer jersey was rumpled, and he was still clutching that gold-capped Dior lip balm like a piece of holy shrapnel.

He headed straight for Tamsy’s room, not even bothering to knock—a boundary that had evaporated sometime between the third and fourth hour of their bunker talk. He found the "Ghost" sitting at his vanity in a silk robe that looked like it was spun from moonlight, calmly applying a expensive serum to his face.

"Butler? You’re back early," Tamsy purred, catching Enjin’s reflection in the mirror. He didn't even turn around, just tilted his head in that regal, annoying way that made Enjin’s heart skip. "Did you miss your—"

Enjin didn't let him finish. He crashed onto the velvet chaise lounge next to Tamsy and buried his face in the silk covering Tamsy’s lap, letting out a long, muffled, and truly pathetic groan.

"They found the lip balm, Tamsy," Enjin groaned into the fabric. "Arkha and Zodyl. They caught me in 4K. Now three of themm knows. They know about the pores. They know about the gold flakes in the coffee. I am a disgraced man. My 'bro' status has been revoked. I'm basically a social exile now."

Tamsy froze for a second, a glass dropper hovering mid-air, and then a soft, melodic giggle bubbled out of him—the kind of sound that usually made Enjin want to argue, but today it just made him want to sink deeper into the silk. Tamsy set the dropper down and began running his slender, cool fingers through Enjin’s dark, messy hair.

"Oh, poor baby," Tamsy whispered.

The pet name hit Enjin like a shot of nitrous. It was soft, casual, and slid off Tamsy’s tongue with a honey-sweetness that made Enjin’s brain stall.

"Did the big, scary soccer players make fun of your hydrated lips, baby?" Tamsy teased, his fingers gently tugging at a tangle in Enjin's hair.

Enjin looked up, his chin resting on Tamsy’s knees, eyes wide and blinking. "What did you just call me?"

Tamsy tilted his head, a mischievous, proprietary glint in his eyes. "I called you a baby. Because you’re pouting. And you’re clingy. And you’re currently shedding grease on my couture robe like a stray dog."

"I'm traumatized," Enjin murmured, but instead of pulling away, he sat up and hauled Tamsy into a crushing, needy embrace. He tucked his head into the crook of Tamsy’s neck, inhaling that signature scent of vanilla and high-end arrogance. "I need... therapeutic skinship. My mental health is at a redline. I’ve been bullied for forty-five minutes straight."

"Is that so, baby?" Tamsy breathed, his hands winding around Enjin’s neck, pulling him closer until their noses brushed. "And what does this 'therapy' involve?"

Enjin’s hands settled firmly on Tamsy’s waist, his thumbs dipping under the silk tie of the robe. "It involves you being quiet and letting me—"

DING-DONG.

The doorbell echoed through the mansion like a death knell. Both boys jumped, Enjin nearly falling off the chaise.

"Who is that?" Enjin hissed, his protective "Racer" instincts instantly replaced by pure "I-must-not-be-seen" panic.

"I don't know! My mother isn't due back until Thursday!" Tamsy scrambled to the window, peeking through the curtain. His face went pale. "Oh no. Oh, absolutely not. It’s Riyo. And... and Amo is with her. They’re at the gate!"

"WHAT?!" Enjin’s voice cracked. "Riyo is going to kill me! He's been texting me all morning! And Amo... Tamsy! I can't be here!"

"Hide!" Tamsy scrambled toward the door as the sound of footsteps and laughter approached from the stairs. "The closet! Go! Now!"

"The closet? Tamsy, I'm six-foot-two! I'm an engineering student! I don't fit in—"

"GO, BABY, GO!" Tamsy shoved Enjin toward the massive walk-in closet, practically kicking him inside just as the bedroom door flew open.

Enjin hit the floor of the closet with a soft oomph. The door clicked shut, plunging him into a world of cedar wood, expensive silk, and a concentrated cloud of Tamsy’s perfume. It was like being buried alive in a luxury department store. He was huddling behind a row of $3,000 suits, trying to breathe quietly.

Outside, the bedroom door slammed open.

"Tamsy! Why are you breathing like you just ran a marathon? And why is there a soccer ball in your hallway?" Riyo’s voice was loud, sharp, and suspiciously close.

"It’s... it’s a new decor trend!" Tamsy’s voice sounded three octaves higher than normal. "Athletic-chic! Very avant-garde! Sit down! Let’s go to the kitchen! I have... artisanal water!"

"No," a deep, eccentric voice boomed. That was Amo. "Amo feels a disturbance in the aesthetic force. Amo smells... gasoline. And cheap laundry detergent. The aura of this room is contaminated by peasant energy."

Inside the closet, Enjin’s heart was hammering so hard it felt like it would rattle the coat hangers. Peasant energy? My detergent is a generic brand, but it works fine!

"Amo must investigate the closet," Amo continued. Enjin saw the shadows of feet under the closet door. "Amo thinks Tamsy is hiding a lawnmower. Or perhaps a very large, greasy dog."

For the next hour, Enjin endured a living nightmare. He was curled in a ball, clutching a white silk shirt to his face to keep from sneezing. He heard Riyo complaining about how Enjin's "bad influence" was going to ruin Tamsy’s reputation. He heard Amo talking about his "spiritual connection" to velvet for forty minutes.

"Amo is bored," Amo finally stated. "This room lacks inspiration. Riyo, let us take Tamsy to the bakery. Amo requires a croissant to heal his aura."

"Fine," Riyo sighed. "Tamsy, get your shoes. And don't think I've forgotten about the soccer ball. I'm calling a forensic team."

Enjin heard the bedroom door close. He waited. One minute. Two. His legs were cramping. His back ached. He smelled like a bouquet of roses.

The closet door creaked open. Tamsy stood there, looking exhausted but triumphant, his silver hair a complete mess from the stress.

"You can come out now, my brave little lawnmower," Tamsy whispered, reaching a hand into the darkness.

Enjin crawled out, his limbs stiff, and immediately stood up, towering over Tamsy. Without a word, he grabbed Tamsy by the waist and pulled him back into the closet, pinning him against the rack of suits and closing the door behind them.

"Amo thinks I’m a lawnmower?" Enjin growled playfully, his voice low and vibrating in the small space. "And you... you just stood there while they roasted my aura?"

Tamsy laughed, a soft, breathless sound, wrapping his arms around Enjin’s neck. The closet was dark, smelling of cedar and Tamsy. "I was protecting you, baby. If Riyo saw you in there, he would have called a priest. You looked very cute hiding behind my blazers, by the way."

"I hated every second of it," Enjin muttered, but his hands were busy pulling Tamsy closer, his forehead resting against the boy's. "I missed you. And it's only been an hour."

"I missed you too, baby," Tamsy whispered, his fingers tracing the "Red 08" logo on Enjin’s chest.

Enjin leaned in, his lips grazing Tamsy’s ear. "Say it again."

"What? Baby?" Tamsy teased, nipping at Enjin’s jawline. "Baby, baby, baby. My sweet, greasy, lawnmower baby."

Enjin groaned and captured Tamsy’s lips in a kiss that was deep, desperate, and filled with the pent-up tension of the last hour. Tamsy hummed into the kiss, his legs wrapping around Enjin’s waist as Enjin lifted him up, the two of them lost in the quiet, silk-scented darkness of the closet.

"I’m never hiding again," Enjin breathed against his lips.

"Good," Tamsy smiled, his eyes shining in the sliver of light from the door. "Because I think I like the lawnmower better when he's loud."

After weeks. The air in the bunker had changed. It was thick, humid, and heavy with the scent of Tamsy’s vanilla skin and Enjin’s woodsy sweat. The hum of the heater was the only thing filling the silence as they sat on the worn leather bench, but even that was drowned out by the thudding of two hearts beating in a rhythm that was fast, desperate, and undeniable.

Enjin’s hands, the large, rough hands that usually handled steel and iron—were trembling as they slid under the hem of Tamsy’s silk shirt. He let out a low, shaky breath when his palms finally met Tamsy’s bare waist. Tamsy was so warm, his skin feeling like heated satin against Enjin’s callouses.

"Enjin..." Tamsy’s voice was a broken, breathy rasp, his head falling back as Enjin’s lips found the sensitive hollow of his throat.

"I've got you," Enjin muttered, his voice dropping into a guttural, primal register. "I've got you, baby."

He pulled Tamsy flush against him, lifting him until Tamsy was straddling his lap, their bodies fitting together like two gears finally clicking into place after years of grinding. The intimacy was suffocating in the best way. Enjin’s mouth moved from Tamsy’s neck to his jaw, then finally to his lips in a kiss that tasted like a total surrender. It wasn't just a kiss; it was a conversation—an admission of everything they had been too scared to say.

Tamsy’s fingers tangled deep into Enjin’s dark hair, pulling him closer, his nails grazing Enjin’s scalp. He was making tiny, needy sounds in the back of his throat that were driving Enjin insane. Enjin’s grip on Tamsy’s waist tightened, his thumbs tracing the line of Tamsy’s spine, making the smaller boy arch into him with a soft, desperate cry.

"You’re mine," Tamsy whispered against Enjin’s lips, his eyes dark, hazy, and completely focused on the man holding him. "Tell me you’re mine."

"Yours," Enjin groaned, his face buried in Tamsy’s neck. "Only yours."

In a surge of pure, unadulterated possessiveness, Tamsy tilted Enjin’s head back. He wanted to leave a reminder. He wanted something that wouldn't wash off. He sank his teeth into the column of Enjin’s neck, right above the collarbone. He bit down—just hard enough to make Enjin hiss—and then sucked the skin with a desperate, lingering heat.

Enjin’s entire body went rigid. A low, vibrating growl started in his chest as he felt the sting and the heat of Tamsy marking him. He felt the dampness of Tamsy’s tongue, the sharpness of the claim. It was an branding.

They were so close to losing it—Enjin’s hand was already moving to the button of Tamsy’s trousers, his breath hitching—when a loud, metallic CLANG echoed through the bunker. A stack of empty oil cans had finally succumbed to the vibrations of their movement and tumbled over.

The spell broke. They both froze, gasping for air, chests heaving against each other.

Enjin looked at Tamsy—his white hair was a wild halo, his lips were swollen and red, and his eyes were swimming with a beautiful, terrifying vulnerability.

"God," Enjin rasped, resting his forehead against Tamsy’s. He was shaking. "Tamsy... if we don't stop right now, I'm going to ruin you for anyone else."

Tamsy reached up, his thumb brushing the dark, purple-red mark he had just bloomed on Enjin’s neck. He smiled, a slow, triumphant, and devastatingly beautiful look. "Good. That was the point, baby."

The Next Morning: 9:30 AM. The sun was a vengeful, blazing god. It was 35°C (95°F), and the humidity in the school was so thick it felt like walking through warm soup.

Enjin. walked across the university courtyard looking like a total lunatic. He was wearing his thickest, heaviest "Red 08" black hoodie. The zipper was pulled all the way to his chin, and the hood was up. Sweat was literally dripping from the tip of his nose.

"Enjin, bro, you’re going to die," Gris said, fanning himself with a notebook. "It’s ninety-five degrees. Why are you dressed like you’re in the Arctic?"

"I'm... I'm feeling a bit under the weather," Enjin lied, his voice sounding strangled because the zipper was digging into his throat. "Chills. Very localized chills on my neck."

"Localized chills?" Zodyl squinted, reaching for the zipper. "Let me see. Maybe it's a rash—"

"DON'T TOUCH THE ZIPPER!" Enjin barked, swatting Zodyl’s hand away.

Suddenly, Tamsy strolled past them, looking fresh, cool, and utterly radiant in a sleeveless silk shirt. He looked like he hadn't spent the night on a greasy bunker floor. He stopped, turned back, and looked Enjin up and down with a devilish smirk.

"Morning, baby," Tamsy purred, his voice carrying perfectly across the quiet courtyard. "You look... toasted. Are you sure you don't want to zip down? It's awfully hot."

"I'm fine, Tamsy," Enjin hissed through gritted teeth.

Tamsy stepped closer, his hand reaching out to "adjust" the hood. As he did, his fingers purposely tugged the fabric down just enough for the edge of the dark, violent hickey to peak out.

"Oh," Tamsy whispered, leaning into Enjin’s ear so only he could hear. "It looks even better in the daylight. Everyone's going to know you were a very good boy last night."

Tamsy patted Enjin’s chest and walked away, his laughter echoing.

Gris and Zodyl stared at Enjin’s neck. Then at each other.

"A HICKEY?!" Zodyl’s scream could be heard in the next building. 

"I AM GOING TO EXPLAIN THIS WITH MY FISTS!" Enjin roared, sprinting after a laughing Tamsy while his friends doubled over in the dirt, howling with laughter.

The Pit Stop. The air at the docks smelled like salt and old engine oil. Enjin was leaning against his car, the Red 08, trying to look cool, but he kept on adjusting his collar. He was trying to hide the dark purple mark on his neck, the hickey tamsy had there last night. 

His friends, the Redline Crew, were not making it easy.

"Look at him," Gris laughed, pointing at Enjin. "The 'Red Ghost' is whipped. You’re not a racer anymore, man. You’re just a servant for that bratty fashion kid."

"Yeah," Zodyl added, leaning against a pile of tires. "Does he let you drive your own car, or do you just carry his shopping bags all day? You used to be a legend. Now you’re just an accessory for a guy who’s too pretty for his own good."

Enjin looked at the ground. He didn't say anything. He was used to their "bro-logic" and didn't feel like explaining that he actually liked taking care of Tamsy.

But he didn't realize Tamsy was standing right behind the corner of the trailer.

Tamsy stood frozen. He was holding two cups of expensive coffee. He had spent twenty minutes making sure the order was perfect—exactly how Enjin liked it.

But hearing the word "accessory" felt like a slap in the face.

Tamsy looked down at his own expensive boots and his perfectly styled hair. He suddenly felt out of place. He realized these people saw him as a burden—a "brat" who was ruining Enjin’s reputation.

Maybe they’re right, Tamsy thought. His chest felt heavy. He is a legend here. And I’m just... a distraction.

Without a word, Tamsy set the coffee cups down on a rusted metal barrel. He didn't want Enjin to see him cry. He turned around and started walking away, his heels clicking quietly on the pavement. He kept his head high, trying to act like his heart wasn't breaking.

Enjin saw a flash of silver hair in the distance. His heart skipped a beat. He knew that walk. That was Tamsy’s "I’m leaving and I’m never coming back" walk.

"Tamsy?" Enjin called out.

"Let him go, Jin!" Gris shouted. "Come on, let’s talk about the race tonight."

Enjin looked at his friends. Then he looked at Tamsy’s retreating back. Suddenly, he didn't care about being a "masculine pillar" or a "legend."

He jumped. Not just onto the curb, but right onto the hood of his car. The Red 08—the car he never let anyone touch.

"HEY! TAMSY! STOP WALKING!" Enjin yelled.

The entire dock went silent. Everyone turned to look at him. Tamsy stopped but didn't turn around.

"LISTEN TO ME!" Enjin pointed at his friends. "HE’S NOT AN ACCESSORY! AND I’M NOT HIS SERVANT!"

Enjin took a deep breath and shouted as loud as he could, his voice echoing over the water.

"I LOVE HIM! DO YOU HEAR ME? I LOVE THAT BRAT!"

Tamsy slowly turned around. His eyes were wide and wet with tears.

"I LOVE HIM EVEN IF HE’S ANNOYING!" Enjin continued, standing tall on his car. "I LOVE HIM EVEN IF HE MAKES ME WAKE UP AT 4:00 AM! I LOVE HIM EVEN IF HIS COFFEE COSTS MORE THAN MY TIRES!"

Enjin looked directly at Tamsy, his face red but his eyes full of pride.

"HE’S NOT A DISTRACTION! HE’S MY FINISH LINE! SO IF ANY OF YOU HAVE A PROBLEM WITH HIM, YOU HAVE A PROBLEM WITH ME!"

Tamsy walked back slowly. He looked at Enjin standing on the car, looking like a fool, but a very brave fool.

Tamsy stopped in front of the car and looked up. "You’re getting footprints on the paint," he whispered, his voice shaking.

Enjin jumped down and stood right in front of him. He didn't care who was watching. "I told you I’d shout it, didn’t I?"

Tamsy wiped a tear from his cheek and tried to look bratty again, but he couldn't stop smiling. "Your voice is too loud. And your friends are idiots. But..."

He reached up, grabbed Enjin’s hoodie, and pulled him down into a kiss.

"...I guess you’re my idiot now."

"Always," Enjin whispered against his lips.

The "Redline" underground forums were still in a total meltdown. A blurry video of the legendary, grumpy "Red Ghost" standing on his car and screaming about skincare had gone viral. The comments were a chaotic mix of:

• “Wait, did he just say he loves him more than his tires? Is he okay??”
• “RIP to the Red Ghost. We lost him to the fashion world.”
• “Honestly? Relationship goals.”

Enjin didn't care. He hadn’t logged into the forum in days. He had better things to look at.

They were in the back corner of the university library, hidden behind a stack of dusty law books. It was quiet, the late afternoon sun streaming through the window, turning everything a warm, honey gold.

Enjin was trying to study for his Calculus final, but his focus was at a steady 0%. Next to him, Tamsy was sprawled out, using Enjin’s thigh as a pillow. Tamsy had his "workstation" set up—which was really just three different luxury lip balms and a sketchbook.

"Baby," Tamsy murmured, not looking up from his drawing. "Your leg is too muscular. It’s like sleeping on a rock. Do something about it."

Enjin let out a soft huff, but he didn't move. Instead, he reached down and started idly playing with Tamsy’s silver hair, his grease-stained fingers looking so dark against the bright strands. "You’re the one who chose to sit here, Babe. There's a whole sofa over there."

"The sofa doesn't smell like you," Tamsy grumbled, finally closing his sketchbook and looking up. His eyes were soft, devoid of the "ghostly" sadness from the docks. He looked well-fed, well-loved, and completely at peace.

Enjin’s heart did that weird skip-jump it always did. He put his pen down and leaned over. "You know, I was thinking about that 'Integration' lesson again."

Tamsy groaned, a pretty pout forming on his lips. "No more math, Enjin. My brain is only for aesthetics today."

"Just listen," Enjin whispered, his voice dropping to that low, gravelly tone that always made Tamsy’s breath hitch. "In Calculus, integration is about finding the area under a curve. It’s about filling in all the empty spaces until you have a whole shape."

He traced the line of Tamsy’s jaw with his thumb, his touch uncharacteristically gentle.

"Before you... my life had a lot of empty spaces. I had the car, I had the races, I had the 4:00 AM drives. But it was just lines. No shape. No color." Enjin leaned down until their foreheads touched. "You filled in all the spaces, Tamsy. You're the reason the math finally adds up."

Tamsy’s "bratty" mask completely melted. He reached up, his small, soft hands cupping Enjin’s face, pulling him closer. "You're so cheesy," Tamsy whispered, his voice trembling just a little. "It’s actually embarrassing. If Riyo heard you, she’d record it and play it at our wedding."

Enjin didn't flinch at the word wedding. He just smiled—a real, wide, proud smile. "Let her. I’ll say it louder then."

Tamsy let out a tiny, shaky laugh and pulled Enjin down into a kiss. It wasn't like the frantic, desperate kiss at the docks. This one was slow. It tasted like Tamsy’s expensive cherry lip balm and the sweet, lingering scent of the white chocolate mocha they had shared earlier.

When they pulled apart, Tamsy tucked his head under Enjin’s chin, smelling the familiar scent of laundry detergent and faint engine oil. It was his favorite smell in the world.

"Enjin?"

"Yeah?"

"I’m still not riding in the Red 08 if you don't vacuum the floor mats," Tamsy said, his voice muffled against Enjin’s chest.

Enjin laughed, his chest vibrating against Tamsy’s cheek. He wrapped his arms tightly around his "Goth Ghost," holding him like he was the most precious thing he had ever built.

"I already vacuumed them this morning, Babe. Twice."

"Good," Tamsy whispered, closing his eyes. "Then you can drive me to get sushi. 4:00 AM. Don't be late."

Enjin kissed the top of his head, his heart finally, perfectly quiet. "I’m never late for you."

he 'Enter' key on the laptop. A complex, three-dimensional wireframe model appeared on the giant projector screen. It was a sleek, aerodynamic intake manifold—the heart of a high-performance engine.

"We chose to model a custom intake runner," Enjin started, his voice steady. He was in his element now. "To calculate the volume of the internal chamber, we used the Shell Method because our boundaries are defined by a function of this one, and we’re rotating about the y-axis. This allows us to account for the varying thickness of the aluminum walls."

As Enjin spoke, he walked through the integration they found out.

He didn't stutter once. He was clear, technical, and surprisingly hot when he was focused. The crew in the back, Zodyl and Gris, actually stopped whispering for a second, impressed by the "Red Ghost" in his professional zone.

But then, it was Tamsy’s turn.

Tamsy was supposed to handle the Theoretical Derivation—the deep, abstract math that connected the physics to the calculus. He stepped up to the podium, looking cool and collected. But as he looked at the screen, he froze.

Tamsy had forgotten his flashcards. The "genius" who knew aerodynamics had a total brain-fart under the flickering fluorescent lights. He looked at the complicated partial fraction decomposition on the screen and his mind went blank.

He didn't look scared—he looked annoyed at himself. He stared at the screen, his lips parting slightly, silence stretching for a second too long.

In the back of his mind, Tamsy was panicking. He didn't actually know the specifics of Enjin's custom 3D modeling software, and he hated to admit he was lost. He had been secretly hoping Enjin would carry the technical side so he could just look pretty and smart, but now he was the one lagging.

"And... the reason we used this specific substitution..." Tamsy started, his voice wavering just a tiny bit.

Enjin didn't even wait. Without missing a beat, he stepped closer to Tamsy, their shoulders brushing. He reached out and tapped a specific part of the screen, subtly sliding a small piece of paper—the backup notes he’d written just in case—onto the podium where only Tamsy could see them.

"As my partner was about to say," Enjin interjected, his voice deep and reassuring, "the trigonometric substitution was necessary because the curvature of the intake follows a circular arc. Tamsy, do you want to show them the final volume result?"

Tamsy’s eyes flicked to the notes. He let out a tiny, invisible breath of relief. His bratty mask snapped back into place instantly.

"Exactly," Tamsy said, his voice regaining its haughty, superior tone. "As Enjin correctly noted, the arc is defined by this one on the screen. If you look at the second derivative, you’ll see why the flow stays laminar."

Tamsy launched into a brilliant, high-level explanation of the math, his voice smooth and confident. To the rest of the class, they looked like a perfect, well-oiled machine. The "Goth Ghost" and the "Red Racer" were perfectly in sync, finishing each other's sentences like they’d been doing this for years.

"Excellent work," the Professor said, actually smiling. "A perfect score. The integration of the engineering application with the theoretical math was... flawless."

As they walked back to their seats, the crew started whistling. "Teamwork makes the dream work!" Zodyl yelled.

Enjin sat down, his heart finally slowing down. He felt a nudge against his arm. Tamsy was leaning toward him, his white hair shielding his face from the rest of the class.

"I didn't need your help," Tamsy whispered, his voice as bratty as ever. "I was just pausing for dramatic effect. It’s called 'pacing,' Enjin. You wouldn't understand."

Enjin looked at him, seeing the way Tamsy’s hand was still gripped tightly around the notes Enjin had given him. "Sure, Tamsy. Dramatic effect. That’s why you were staring at the screen like it was a ghost."

Tamsy wrinkled his nose and looked away, but he didn't pull his arm away from Enjin’s. "Whatever. Your handwriting is messy. I could barely read it."

"You read it well enough to get us an A," Enjin countered, a small smirk playing on his lips.

Tamsy was quiet for a second. He looked at the back of the room, then back at Enjin. "I was... I was actually worried about you," he admitted, his voice so low Enjin almost missed it. "I thought you were going to stutter or forget the limits. I didn't know how to explain your weird car-math if you messed up."

Enjin felt that heavy thud in his chest again. Tamsy had been worried about him?

"I've got you, Ghost," Enjin said, his voice soft and genuine. "You handle the 'aesthetic' side, I'll handle the 'engine' side. It works, doesn't it?"

Tamsy didn't say anything. He just reached over and adjusted the collar of Enjin’s shirt, his fingers lingering for a second too long.

"I guess it does," Tamsy whispered. "Just don't expect a thank you. You're still my driver."

Enjin just laughed. He was a chauffeur, a maid, a "close friend," and a study partner. And as he looked at the bratty, white-haired boy sitting next to him, he realized he wouldn't change a single thing.

–

The "Secret Bunker" felt different tonight. Usually, the air was heavy with the stress of upcoming races or the grime of a long day’s work, but tonight, it felt like a victory lap. The overhead lights hummed with a soft, yellow glow, reflecting off the polished crimson body of the Red 08.

"We got an A," Enjin muttered, still shaking his head as he unlocked the heavy steel door. "I’m actually passing Calculus. My mom might actually cry."

"Of course we got an A," Tamsy huffed, trailing behind him. He was still wearing the "Red 08" hoodie, the sleeves flopping as he gestured around the room. "I was the one presenting. My presence alone is worth a 4.0 GPA."

Enjin rolled his eyes, but he wasn't really annoyed. He walked over to his car and patted the hood. He looked at Tamsy, then back at the driver’s seat. He’d never let anyone—not even Gris—sit in that seat. It was his throne. It was the only place where he felt completely in control.

"Hey, Ghost," Enjin said, his voice dropping into a low, quiet tone. "Come here."

Tamsy tilted his head, looking suspicious. "If you're going to ask me to help you lift a transmission, the answer is no. My manicure is less than twenty-four hours old."

"Just get over here."

Enjin reached out, grabbed Tamsy by the waist of the oversized hoodie, and pulled him toward the driver's side door. He popped the latch and swung it open, revealing the stripped-down, professional racing interior. The carbon fiber dash, the quick-release steering wheel, and the deep, bucket racing seat looked intimidating.

"Sit," Enjin commanded.

Tamsy’s eyes went wide. The bratty, "I-don't-care" mask didn't just slip—it shattered. He looked at the seat, then at Enjin, his breath hitching. "You... you're serious? You don't let anyone touch this car."

"I let my 'close friend' touch it," Enjin teased, though his heart was racing. "Get in. Before I change my mind."

Tamsy climbed in slowly, his movements unusually careful. He sank into the bucket seat, his small frame almost disappearing into the professional padding. He reached out, his pale fingers trembling slightly as they gripped the suede-covered steering wheel.

The moment Tamsy’s hands touched the wheel, something happened. He didn't say anything. He didn't make a joke. He just stared at the dashboard, his reflection caught in the glass of the RPM gauge.

Enjin leaned against the doorframe, watching him. He expected a comment about how "industrial" it felt or how the seat was "un-aesthetic." But Tamsy was silent. Then, Enjin noticed it—the way Tamsy’s shoulders were shaking.

"Tamsy?" Enjin’s voice went sharp with panic. He leaned in closer, his hand hovering over Tamsy’s shoulder. "Hey, what's wrong? Is the seat too tight? Are you—wait, are you crying?"

Tamsy quickly wiped his eyes with the long sleeve of the hoodie, but a stray tear escaped, trailing down his pale cheek. He didn't look up.

"I'm not crying," Tamsy whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "It’s just... the lighting in here is really bad for my eyes. It’s making them water."

"You're totally crying!" Enjin scrambled, feeling a level of fear he’d never felt during a 120mph drift. "God, Tamsy, I’m sorry! I didn't mean to—look, if you hate the car that much, you can get out! Don't cry, okay? I’ll buy you a latte! Two lattes!"

"I don't hate it, you idiot," Tamsy snapped, though there was no bite in it. He finally looked up at Enjin, his eyes red-rimmed and shimmering. "It’s just... no one has ever shared their 'thing' with me before. Everything in my house is a display piece. Everything is for show. But this..." He gripped the wheel harder. "This is real. And you’re letting me be a part of it."

Enjin froze. He looked at the white-haired boy sitting in the heart of his world, wearing his clothes, sitting in his seat. The "Calculus" of it finally clicked. It wasn't about the grades, or the bunker, or the "close friend" lie.

It was about the fact that they actually fit. Like a perfectly timed gear shift.

"Yeah," Enjin said, his voice soft and rough. "It’s real."

They stayed like that for a long time. Tamsy sitting in the car, pretending he wasn't overwhelmed, and Enjin standing by the door, pretending he wasn't terrified by how much he cared about the boy in the driver’s seat.

They didn't talk about the tears. They didn't talk about the "close friend" comment. They didn't talk about the fact that the "Red Ghost" had finally been haunted by something he couldn't outrun.

It was just a quiet, happy moment in a dark bunker, surrounded by the smell of gasoline and the feeling of a victory they hadn't even raced for yet.

"Enjin?" Tamsy asked, his voice returning to its bratty, bossy lilt, though it was still a bit shaky.

"Yeah?"

"Adjust the mirrors. I can't see my reflection properly, and I think I look cute in this seat."

Enjin let out a loud, relieved laugh, reaching into the car to adjust the glass. "You're a nightmare, Caines."

"I'm an icon," Tamsy corrected, leaning back and closing his eyes, a small, genuine smile finally touching his lips. "Now, tell me about the Moment of Inertia for this wheel. I’m bored and I want to hear you talk about math."

Enjin leaned his head against the roll cage, looking at Tamsy, and for the first time in his life, he didn't care about the redline. He just wanted to stay right here.

–

The sun hadn’t even fully risen over the city when Enjin found himself staring at the bathroom mirror, his hands gripping the porcelain sink so hard his knuckles turned a ghostly white. He felt sick, not the kind of sickness a fever brings, but the visceral, churning nausea of a man who realized he had accidentally handed over the keys to his soul.

The memory of the bunker played on a loop, a jagged film strip he couldn't stop. Tamsy’s tears. The way Tamsy’s small frame had looked so right, so fitting, in the driver’s seat of the Red 08. The way the air had tasted like salt and surrender.

"I’m straight," Enjin whispered to his reflection, his voice sounding thin and foreign. "I’m Enjin K. I like horsepower. I like girls. I like the simplicity of a straight line."

He splashed freezing water onto his face, gasping as the chill hit his skin. He needed to believe his own lie. He needed to reinforce the boundaries that Tamsy Caines had glided through like they were made of nothing but smoke. Tamsy wasn't a partner. He wasn't a "close friend." He was a landlord. A project. A high-maintenance distraction that was currently threatening to ruin everything Enjin understood about himself.

"It was just a moment," Enjin muttered, grabbing a towel. "People get emotional. It didn’t mean anything."

10:15 AM. The Quad. The campus was buzzing with Monday energy, but to Enjin, it felt like a minefield. Every white-haired student in the distance made his heart jump into his throat. He felt exposed, as if the secret intimacy of the weekend was written in grease across his forehead.

He saw him by the fountain.

Tamsy was surrounded by his usual clique of high-fashion Arts students, looking like a centerpiece in a display of porcelain dolls. He was laughing at something a girl said, but the second Enjin stepped onto the plaza, Tamsy’s head turned. It was as if he had a sensor tuned specifically to Enjin’s frequency.

Their eyes locked.

Tamsy didn't give him the usual bratty smirk. He didn't roll his eyes or make a demanding gesture. Instead, his expression softened into something terrifyingly genuine. He raised his hand, a small, hesitant wave that wasn't for the crowd, but only for Enjin. It was a wave that said, I remember what happened. I’m still here. We’re okay.

Enjin felt a spike of pure, unadulterated panic. That warmth was a threat. It was an invitation into a world where Enjin didn't know the rules.

He didn't wave back.

He didn't even nod. He tightened his jaw, looked directly through Tamsy as if he were nothing more than a glitch in the air, and pivoted on his heel. He walked in the opposite direction, his boots heavy and aggressive against the pavement, his heart hammering a frantic, rhythmic get out, get out, get out against his ribs.

2:00 PM. The Engineering Shop. Enjin spent the rest of the day in a self-imposed exile. He skipped their pre-Calculus coffee. He ignored three texts that he knew, without looking, were from Tamsy.

"Hey, Eight," Gris said, stepping into the dim light of the shop where Enjin was mindlessly disassembling a perfectly functional alternator. "Riyo said you skipped lunch. And Zodyl’s looking for you. You okay, man? You look like you’re waiting for an explosion."

"I'm busy, Gris," Enjin snapped, his voice sharp and jagged. "I have work to do. Tell the guys I'm staying late."

"But—"

"I said I'm busy!" Enjin roared, slamming a wrench onto the metal table.

Gris held up his hands, his expression shifting from confusion to a quiet, knowing pity. "Fine. Work hard, then. Just don't break the parts that aren't broken yet."

When Gris left, the silence of the shop felt like a weight. Enjin looked at his hands—the same hands that had almost reached out to touch Tamsy’s hair in the bunker. He hated them. He hated the way his body remembered a scent he should have forgotten.

He was building a wall. A massive, reinforced fortress of steel and denial. He convinced himself that if he stayed in the dark long enough, if he stayed busy enough, the "Ghost" would simply haunt someone else.

He didn't realize that when you build a wall to keep someone out, you end up trapping yourself in the dark with the very thing you're running from.

Enjin sat back against a stack of tires, pulling his hoodie up to hide his face. He felt the friction starting—the grinding of his old life against the new, terrifying reality he had let in. And deep down, he knew.

The wall wasn't going to hold.

The bunker, it was a cage. For seventy-two hours, Enjin had lived in the deafening roar of Tamsy’s absence. The silence was a physical weight, pressing against his lungs until every breath felt like inhaling iron filings. 

He had spent those three days in a fever state, scrubbing the engine of the Red 08 until his knuckles were raw and weeping, trying to wash away the phantom sensation of white hair brushing against his cheek.

Every time his phone buzzed, his heart would stop, a painful, stuttering jolt in his chest—only to shatter when it wasn't a text from the Ghost. He was mourning a relationship he was too terrified to admit existed, grieving for a boy he had spent all day pretending was a stranger.

He was hunched over the workbench, the harsh, flickering fluorescent light casting deep, exhausted hollows under his eyes, when the heavy steel door shrieked open.

Tamsy broke in.

He looked unraveled. His dark designer trench coat was heavy and damp from the rain, clinging to his slight frame. His silver-white hair, usually a masterpiece of perfection, was matted, wet, and sticking to his forehead. But it was his eyes that gutted Enjin—they weren't arrogant or bratty anymore. They were raw, bloodshot, and swimming with a desperation so deep it looked like grief.

"What is your problem?" Tamsy’s voice cracked, the sound bouncing hollowly off the concrete walls like a dying echo.

Enjin’s grip tightened on a heavy wrench until his entire arm shook with the effort not to turn around. "I’m busy, Caines. Go back to the mansion."

"Don’t you dare 'Caines' me!" Tamsy screamed, the sound tearing through the quiet of the bunker. He stumbled forward, his boots clicking erratically on the oil-stained floor.

 "You’ve been ignoring me for seventy-two hours! You walked past me in the hall like I was a ghost—the kind you’re actually afraid of! You looked through me, Enjin! Do you have any idea what that feels like? To be visible to the whole world but invisible to the only person you—" He stopped, a choked sob catching in his throat.

Enjin dropped the wrench. The heavy metal CLANG sounded like a gunshot. He spun around, his chest heaving, his face contorted in a mask of defensive, ugly rage. "I’m trying to survive, Tamsy! I have a life! I have friends who don't wear silk! I have a reputation that doesn't involve... whatever this mess is!"

"Whatever this mess is?" Tamsy repeated, a single, hot tear finally spilling over and carving a path through the rain-damp skin of his cheek. He shoved Enjin’s chest, his small hands trembling. "You’re a coward. You’re so obsessed with being 'one of the bros' that you’re willing to kill the only thing that makes you feel alive. You felt it in the car. You felt it in the library. And now you’re trying to bury it under grease and lies because you're scared of what they'll think of you!"

"Shut up!" Enjin roared, the sound vibrating in his own teeth. He lunged forward, grabbing Tamsy’s wrists and pinning them back against the cold, jagged edge of a metal tool cabinet. He loomed over him, his shadow swallowing Tamsy whole. "You don’t get it! You’re rich, you’re beautiful, you can be whoever the hell you want! I’m just a guy from the docks! If I’m not 'the racer,' if I'm not the guy they expect me to be, I’m nothing! I lose everything!"

"You're a liar!" Tamsy sobbed, his face inches from Enjin’s. "You’re looking at my mouth right now and you’re dying inside because you want me more than you want that car! You want me more than you want their approval! Just hit me, or kiss me, or tell me you hate me, but stop ignoring me! I can’t breathe when you ignore me, Enjin... please..."

The snap wasn't loud. It was a silent, internal shattering—the sound of every wall Enjin had built for twenty years collapsing at once.

Enjin lunged.

It wasn't a kiss of love instead it was a desperate, mourning collision. 

He crashed his lips against Tamsy’s with a violence that tasted like salt, copper, and months of repressed agony. It was the sound of a car hitting a wall at a hundred miles per hour. He pressed Tamsy into the metal cabinet so hard the hinges groaned and screamed, his hands sliding up from Tamsy's wrists to grip his jaw, his thumbs digging into the soft skin of his throat—not to hurt, but to anchor himself to the only reality that mattered.

The kiss was frantic and ugly. It was the way a dying man tries to steal the air from someone else's lungs. Enjin’s tongue was a blunt instrument, searching, demanding, and Tamsy met him with an equal, starving ferocity. Tamsy let out a broken, muffled gasp into Enjin’s mouth, his hands instantly finding purchase in Enjin’s hair, fistfuls of dark strands pulled tight as he yanked Enjin closer, trying to merge their bones.

Enjin’s hands moved down, clutching the fabric of Tamsy’s damp coat, pulling the smaller boy flush against him until there wasn't a single millimeter of air left between them. He felt Tamsy’s heart hammering against his ribs a frantic, terrified bird and he realized his own was beating in the exact same rhythm. It was a struggle, a war, a frantic rustle of fabric against cold steel and the ragged, sobbing breaths of two boys who realized that even this even this desperate closeness—wasn't enough to fix the world they were breaking.

Every time their lips parted for a microsecond of air, they crashed back together, terrified that the silence would return if they stopped. Enjin kissed him like a man drowning in the middle of a vast, dark ocean, and Tamsy held him like he was the only piece of wreckage left to cling to.

The pull-apart was worse than the kiss. It was the sound of skin tearing.

Enjin stumbled back, his boots dragging on the concrete. His lips were bruised, swollen, and stinging with the salt of Tamsy’s tears. He looked at Tamsy. The boy looked destroyed. His trench coat was slipping off one shoulder, his white hair was a chaotic halo against the dark metal, and his eyes were wide with a terrifying, empty clarity.

"Tamsy..." Enjin reached out, his hand shaking so violently he had to pull it back.

Tamsy flinched. The movement was small, but it felt like a physical blow to Enjin’s chest.

"Don't," Tamsy whispered. His voice was gone—just a raspy, broken thread that barely held together. He didn't look bratty anymore. He didn't look like a porcelain doll. He looked small. He looked like the ghost Enjin had always called him, fading right before his eyes. "You still can't say it, can you?"

Enjin opened his mouth, but his throat was a desert. The words—I love you, I'm yours, I don't care about them—were caught in the throat of a man who was still too cowardly to be anything but "straight." He looked at Tamsy's face, the pale skin blotchy from crying, and he felt a physical ache in his marrow.

"I... I can't," Enjin choked out, the words tasting like poison.

Tamsy nodded slowly, a ghost of a bitter, tragic smile touching his lips. It was the look of someone who had expected to be disappointed but had hoped for a miracle anyway. He straightened his coat with trembling fingers, his movements robotic. He reached up and wiped the tears from his face with the sleeve of Enjin's hoodie—the one he was still wearing, the one that still smelled like Enjin’s garage.

He didn't say another word. He just turned toward the door.

"Keep the bunker, Enjin," Tamsy said, his back to him. He sounded so calm it was haunting. "The rent is paid for the semester. I won't be back to distract you from your... reputation."

The heavy steel door clicked shut with a finality that felt like a tombstone being lowered.

Enjin stood in the center of the bunker, the silence rushing back in like a flood of freezing water. He looked at his hands—the grease, the oil, the things he thought made him a "man." They felt heavy. They felt like lead.

He walked over to the Red 08, the car he loved more than his own life, and slumped against the front tire. He buried his face in his hands and let out a sound that wasn't a sob—it was the low, gutteral howl of a man who had finally realized he’d won the argument, kept his reputation, stayed "one of the bros," and in doing so, had lost the only light he ever had.

He sat on the cold concrete floor, the smell of Tamsy’s vanilla perfume still lingering in the air, and Enjin finally understood the true cost of a straight line: it leads you exactly where you started, completely and utterly alone.

—--

The silence that followed the bunker incident was different from any silence Enjin had ever known. It wasn’t the peaceful quiet of a finished project or the focused stillness of the starting line. It was a vacuum. It was the sound of a heart trying to beat in a space where all the oxygen had been sucked out.

For forty-eight hours, Enjin was a ghost. He moved through the halls of Saint Akuta’s like a programmed machine. He went to class, he sat in his seat, he stared at the blackboard where the complex integrals of Calculus 2 blurred into gray static. 

He didn't look at Row 3. He couldn't look at Row 3. The empty chair where Tamsy usually sat draped in silk, smelling of vanilla and arrogance—felt like a black hole, threatening to pull Enjin’s entire world into it.

He was failing. Not just Calculus, but the carefully constructed version of himself he’d spent twenty years building.

Every time he closed his eyes, he felt the ghost of Tamsy’s lips against his. Not the sweet, cinematic kiss of a romance novel, but that jagged, desperate collision in the dark. He could still feel the way Tamsy had trembled under his hands—the way the "Ghost" had finally become solid, warm, and real, only for Enjin to push him back into the shadows.

4:30 PM. The Locker Room. The air in the locker room was thick with the scent of cheap body wash, sweat, and the humid steam from the showers. The rest of the soccer team had already filtered out, their loud laughter echoing down the hallway, leaving Enjin alone on the low wooden bench.

He was staring at his cleats. One lace was frayed. He’d been staring at that single frayed thread for ten minutes, unable to find the energy to tie it. His chest felt tight, like a seatbelt that had locked during a crash and refused to let go.

"You're gonna hit someone if you keep zoning out like that, Enj."

Enjin didn't flinch. He knew that voice. He knew the heavy, rhythmic thud of Gris’s sneakers as he walked across the linoleum. Gris didn't say anything at first; he just leaned against the locker opposite Enjin, his arms crossed over his damp jersey.

"I'm fine, Gris," Enjin rasped. His voice sounded like it had been dragged over gravel. He finally reached down to pull the lace, but his fingers felt clumsy, useless.

"You're about as fine as a car with a blown head gasket," Gris said, his voice unusually quiet. "You almost took Zodyl’s head off with a stray pass today. You didn't even notice when the coach called your name. And the worst part? You haven't insulted my driving once in two days. That’s how I know you’re dying inside."

Enjin let out a long, shuddering breath. It wasn't just a sigh; it was a surrender. He dropped the lace and let his hands hang limp between his knees.

"Gris..." Enjin started, his eyes fixed on the floor. "Do you ever feel like you're driving a car that’s built for a track you've never been on? Like you’ve spent your whole life practicing the same turns, the same shifts, thinking you knew exactly where the road ended... and then suddenly, the pavement turns to water?"

He looked up, his eyes bloodshot and filled with a raw, terrifying honesty that he’d never shown anyone.

"I’ve spent my whole life being 'Enjin the Racer.' The straight-edge, no-nonsense, one-of-the-bros guy. It was easy. It made sense. But now..." He swallowed hard, his throat tight. "Now, the manual is written in a language I don't speak. And for some reason, the engine only turns over when I’m with him. And I hate it. I hate how much I need it."

Gris didn't laugh. He didn't make a joke about Tamsy’s expensive shoes or the way he called Enjin 'Butler.' He just looked at his best friend with a blunt, agonizing clarity.

"Bro," Gris said, stepping closer. "You’ve been obsessed with that guy since the first day he walked into class. You think we didn't notice? You think the way you look at him is the same way you look at the girls at the docks? It’s not. You don't even look at the Red 08 with that much hunger."

"I'm not... I'm not gay, Gris," Enjin whispered. It was the last line of defense. The final wall.

"Maybe you aren't. Maybe you're just Tamsy-sexual," Gris shrugged, a small, sad smile playing on his lips. "But stop fighting the friction, man. You’re miserable. He looks like a shell of a person. You’re both sitting in your own separate wrecks, waiting for the other to call the tow truck. Just accept it, Eight. Your 'type' is a white-haired, high-maintenance brat who happens to own your soul. It’s not as deep as the labels you’re terrified of. You’re just a guy who found his person, and you’re too stubborn to admit he doesn’t fit into the box you built for yourself."

Gris patted Enjin’s shoulder—a firm, grounding weight—and walked out, the locker room door swinging shut with a soft thud.

6:00 PM. The Parking Lot. Enjin sat in his SUV, the engine idling. He watched the rain start to streak against the windshield, distorting the world outside into blurred lines of neon and gray.

Gris’s words were echoing in his head. Stop fighting the friction.

In racing, friction is what allows you to turn. Without it, you just slide off the track. Enjin realized he had been sliding for days, terrified of the grip, terrified of what would happen if he actually leaned into the curve.

He thought about the kiss. He thought about the way Tamsy’s salt-streaked face had looked under the flickering lights of the bunker. He thought about the "Peasant Wagon" and the way Tamsy’s presence made even a grocery run feel like an event.

He wasn't "one of the bros" anymore. Not really. He was something else. He was a man who had been haunted by a Ghost, and he finally realized he didn't want to be exorcised.

His hands weren't shaking as he reached for his phone. He didn't go to his contacts. He didn't go to his messages. He went to Instagram. He went to that one profile he looked at every night before he fell asleep.

thetamsy

The most recent post was a photo of a single white rose in a crystal vase. Aesthetic. Cold. Lonely.

Enjin didn't send a DM. He knew Tamsy—Tamsy wouldn't answer a "sorry" text. He wouldn't answer an explanation. Tamsy lived in the world of symbols, of "vibes," of the unsaid.

Enjin scrolled through his own camera roll. He found a photo he’d taken a week ago. It was the bunker, late at night. The Red 08 was in the center, its crimson paint glowing under the dim work lights. In the corner of the frame, you could just see the edge of a white silk sleeve resting on the workbench. It was a messy, raw, uncurated shot.

He posted it to his story.

Caption: The lighting is bad, but the company was better.

It was a public surrender. It was an admission that the "company" was the only thing that made the bunker feel like a home instead of a basement. It was Enjin leaning into the friction.

He locked the phone and threw it onto the passenger seat. He drove home in silence, the rain drumming a rhythmic beat on the roof. He went to his apartment, heated up some literal "peasant" ramen, and sat on his couch, staring at the dark screen of his phone.

One minute. Five minutes. Ten.

Then, the screen lit up. A notification banner across the top.

Instagram • Now : thetamsy liked your story.

Enjin let out a long, slow breath he felt like he’d been holding since Monday morning. A real, genuine smile—the kind that reached his eyes and made his chest feel warm—broke across his face.

The notification was followed by a direct message. No text. Just a single emoji.

Instagram • Now : thetamsy sent a message: 🤍

Enjin leaned his head back against the cushion and closed his eyes. The engine was finally starting to run smooth. He wasn't sure what he was yet, and he didn't know where this road was going, but for the first time in his life, he wasn't afraid of the redline.

—

3:14 AM. The red notification light on Enjin’s phone was the only thing piercing the suffocating darkness of his room. 

Usually, at this hour, Enjin’s mind was a chaotic blueprint of gear ratios, tire pressures, or the lingering scent of burnt rubber from a late-night run. But tonight, his sleep had been thin, fragmented by the phantom image of Tamsy’s face in the bunker.

When the phone vibrated against the wood of his nightstand, Enjin didn't even grope for it. His hand shot out with the reflex of a racer catching a skid.

He expected a biting remark. A demand for a late-night "aesthetic" snack. A condescending comment about a Calculus problem he’d solved incorrectly.

Instead, he heard breathing. Ragged, wet, and terrifyingly shallow.

"Enjin..." Tamsy’s voice was a ghost of itself, thin and trembling, stripped of every ounce of its usual porcelain armor. "I think... I think the lights are too loud. They won’t stop screaming."

Enjin sat bolt upright, the heavy blankets tangling around his legs like a trap. The hair on his arms stood up. "Tamsy? What are you talking about? Where are the lights? Where are you?"

"My room. The floor is cold... but I can't get up to reach the bed. Everything is shaking." A small, hitched breath that sounded dangerously like a sob. "I don't like it here tonight, Enjin. This house... it’s too big. It feels like it’s swallowing me."

The line went dead with a soft, final click.

Enjin didn't think. He didn't check the time, he didn't grab a jacket, and he didn't wonder if he was overstepping. He threw on the first thing he found—the black hoodie with the "Red 08" embroidery, the one Tamsy practically lived in lately—and sprinted to his SUV.

He drove to the West Wing with a reckless, white-knuckled speed that would have earned him a lifetime ban from the docks. His heart wasn't just racing; it was hammering against his ribs in a blind, primal panic. The "straight line" he had tried to live by for twenty years was gone. There was only the road to the mansion.

The Caines estate was a tomb of white marble and expensive silence under the moonlight. Enjin didn't bother with the front door; he knew the side entrance security code Tamsy had absentmindedly complained about during a study session. He slipped inside, his heavy boots echoing on the polished stone floors like a heartbeat in an empty chest.

He found Tamsy in the master suite, a room that looked more like a cold museum gallery than a place where someone actually slept. Tamsy was curled into a small, shivering ball on the edge of the massive king-sized bed, half-slid onto the floor. His silver-white hair was fanned out against the white silk sheets like spilled milk, and his skin was a terrifying, feverish pink.

"Tamsy," Enjin whispered, dropping to his knees so hard they bruised against the floor. He reached out, pressing his palm to Tamsy’s forehead.

He hissed. It was like touching the hood of a car after a desert sprint.

"Enjin?" Tamsy’s eyes fluttered open, but they were glassy, unfocused, and swimming with a delirious haze. He reached out a trembling hand, his fingers clutching the sleeve of Enjin’s hoodie. "You’re wearing it. My hoodie. It smells like the bunker. It smells like... you."

"It’s my hoodie, you brat," Enjin choked out, his throat tight with a sudden, overwhelming surge of protectiveness. There was no heat in his words. His chest felt like it was being squeezed by a hydraulic press. "God, Tamsy, you’re burning up. Why didn't you call the staff? Where are your parents?"

"Maid is off for the weekend... Mom is in Dubai for the gala," Tamsy murmured, his head lulling back against Enjin’s arm. He let out a dry, rattling cough that shook his entire frame. "The house is too quiet. I thought... if I died here, nobody would hear the silence break. They’d just find a very aesthetic corpse in three days."

The words hit Enjin harder than the angry make-out ever could. He looked around the cold, gold-trimmed, empty room and realized the truth: for all the silk and diamonds, Tamsy was just a lonely kid shivering in a house that didn't know how to hold him.

"You're not dying," Enjin said firmly, his voice deep and grounding. "I’m here. I’ve got you. Do you hear me? I’m not going anywhere."

The next hour was a blur of a domesticity Enjin never thought he was capable of. He moved with a quiet, efficient tenderness, his "mechanical" hands becoming soft. He carried Tamsy, who felt as light as a handful of feathers, to the bathroom, sitting him on the edge of the marble tub while he ran a cool cloth over his neck, his face, and his pulse points.

Tamsy was delirious, leaning his forehead against Enjin’s shoulder, muttering incoherent things about "peasant tea" and how Enjin’s hands were "too rough but okay." Enjin didn't say a word; he just wiped away the sweat and the tears, his heart breaking a little more with every shiver that wracked Tamsy’s body.

He eventually moved him back to the bed, tucking the heavy silk duvet around him until only Tamsy’s pale face was visible. Enjin went down to the kitchen—a cold, industrial space that clearly saw very little life—and searched until he found a single can of broth and some fresh ginger.

When he returned to the bedroom with a steaming bowl, Tamsy was staring at the ceiling, his eyes finally starting to track.

"Drink this," Enjin commanded softly, sitting on the edge of the mattress and lifting Tamsy’s head to rest in the crook of his arm.

"Is it... artisanal? Is it curated?" Tamsy whispered, his voice a thready rasp.

"It’s the best a 'butler' can do at 4 AM," Enjin replied, blowing on a spoonful of the broth before holding it to Tamsy’s lips.

He fed Tamsy slowly, spoonful by spoonful. The silence in the mansion was no longer a tomb; it was filled with the soft clink of the porcelain and the steady, rhythmic breathing of two people who had finally stopped fighting. As the warmth of the broth settled in, Tamsy’s shivering began to subside. The glassiness in his eyes faded, replaced by a soft, raw lucidity that made Enjin feel completely exposed.

"Enjin?"

"Yeah?"

"About the bunker..." Tamsy started, his hand reaching out from under the covers to clutch Enjin’s wrist. "I didn't mean it. About not coming back. I was... I was just so tired of being the only one who admitted that this was happening."

Enjin set the bowl on the nightstand. He looked down at the boy in his lap—the "Ghost" who had haunted his dreams, ruined his peace, and somehow become the most important thing in his world.

"I know," Enjin whispered, his voice rough with unshed tears. He reached down, his thumb tracing the delicate line of Tamsy’s jaw. "I’m sorry, Tamsy. I’m a coward. I was so scared of what I was becoming—so scared of losing the 'bro' I thought I had to be—that I forgot to care about the person I was actually losing. I'm so sorry I looked through you. I promise... I will never make you feel invisible again. Not ever."

Tamsy looked up at him, his white lashes wet and clumped together. "You were so mean last Monday. I hated you."

"I was an idiot," Enjin corrected, a stray tear finally escaping and landing on the duvet. "The biggest, blindest idiot in the whole department."

Tamsy let out a tiny, weak laugh that sounded more like a sigh. He leaned up, his forehead resting against Enjin’s, their breaths mingling in the quiet air. "Kiss me, Enjin. Not like the bunker. Not the angry kind. Not the kind where you’re trying to prove you’re still in control."

Enjin didn't hesitate. He leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering peck to the tip of Tamsy’s nose. Then he kissed each of Tamsy’s closed eyelids, his lips barely brushing the skin. It was an apology. It was a prayer.

When he finally reached Tamsy’s lips, it was slow. It was deep, warm, and humming with a sweetness that made Enjin’s head spin. This wasn't about friction or heat; it was about the relief of finally stopping the car. Enjin tasted the lingering warmth of the fever and the salt of Tamsy’s skin, but he didn't pull away. He pulled Tamsy closer, his arms wrapping around the smaller boy's waist, holding him as if he were the only thing keeping Enjin grounded to the earth.

The kiss went on for minutes—a slow, rhythmic surrender that drowned out every doubt Enjin had ever had. When they finally broke apart, Tamsy’s face was still flushed, but his smile was the most beautiful thing Enjin had ever seen. He tucked his head under Enjin’s chin, his hands gripping the fabric of the hoodie like a lifeline.

"You're still such a peasant," Tamsy mumbled, his voice trailing off as sleep finally claimed him in the safety of Enjin’s arms.

Enjin leaned back against the headboard, pulling Tamsy’s head onto his chest. He stroked the boy’s white hair, watching the rise and fall of his breath.

"Yeah," Enjin whispered into the dark, quiet room. "But I'm your peasant. And I'm not going anywhere."

7:39 AM. The first thing Enjin felt was the light—not the harsh, buzzing fluorescent light of the Engineering lab, but a soft, expensive gold that filtered through the sheer silk curtains of the Caines mansion. It felt like being submerged in honey.

The second thing he felt was the weight. There was a slight, warm pressure against his chest, and a rhythmic, tiny puff of air hitting the skin of his neck.

Enjin opened his eyes, and for a second, his brain short-circuited. He wasn’t in his cramped apartment. He wasn't in the bunker. He was propped up against a mountain of pillows that probably cost more than his tuition, and Tamsy Caines was fast asleep in his arms.

Tamsy looked different in the morning light. The fever had broken, leaving his skin a soft, healthy porcelain instead of that terrifying flush. His white hair was a complete disaster, sticking up in every direction, and his mouth was slightly parted. He looked less like a "Ghost" and more like a human boy who had finally found a place to rest.

Enjin’s heart did a slow, heavy roll in his chest. He knew he should get up. He should leave before the staff arrived, before the reality of "The Racer and the Ghost" came crashing back. But then Tamsy shifted in his sleep, his nose rubbing against Enjin’s collarbone, and his hand—still clutching the fabric of Enjin’s hoodie—tightened its grip.

"Don't go..." Tamsy mumbled, his voice thick with sleep.

Enjin froze. "You're awake?"

Tamsy peered up at him through messy white lashes, his eyes half-lidded and dreamy. He didn't pull away. In fact, he wiggled closer, tucking his cold feet between Enjin’s legs.

"I'm awake enough to know that you're thinking about running away," Tamsy whispered. He reached up, his fingers tracing the sharp line of Enjin’s jaw, lingering on the stubble there. "Your brain is making that loud, 'I-have-to-be-straight-and-productive' noise again. It’s very distracting."

Enjin let out a breathy laugh, his hand instinctively coming up to rest on the small of Tamsy’s back. "I’m not running. I just... I don't want to get caught. What if your mom comes back from Dubai early? What do I say? 'Hi, I'm the guy who fixes your son's car and also sleeps in his silk sheets'?"

Tamsy smirked, a tiny flash of the old bratty Ghost returning. "You'd say, 'Hi, I'm the butler, and I'm currently occupied.' She’d probably just ask you to bring her a mimosa."

Tamsy sat up slightly, straddling Enjin’s lap while remaining cocooned in the duvet. The height difference was gone now; they were eye-to-eye. Tamsy reached out and adjusted the hood of the sweatshirt Enjin was wearing—the one Tamsy had basically stolen.

"You stayed," Tamsy said, his voice dropping the playful tone. He looked at Enjin with an intensity that made Enjin’s lungs feel small. "The fever was bad, Enjin. I said things. I cried like a commoner."

"You were human, Tamsy," Enjin said softly. He reached out, tucking a stray lock of white hair behind Tamsy’s ear. "And for the record? I liked it. I mean, I hated that you were sick, but I liked that you let me see the part of you that isn't... curated."

Tamsy leaned forward, his forehead pressing against Enjin’s. "It’s a secret, Enjin. This. Us. You know that, right? If the boys at the docks find out you’re domesticating a Caines, your reputation is dead."

"My reputation died the moment I posted that Instagram story," Enjin admitted, his voice a low rumble. "Gris already knows. Zodyl probably suspects. And honestly? I don't think I care anymore. I’m tired of driving in a straight line, Tamsy. It’s boring."

Tamsy’s eyes shimmered. He didn't wait for Enjin this time. He leaned in and pressed a soft, slow peck to Enjin’s lips. Then another. And another. Each one was light, tasting like sleep and peppermint, until Enjin groaned and tilted his head, deepening the kiss.

It wasn't like the bunker. It wasn't a collision. It was a slow, steady idle—the sound of a high-performance engine finally finding its rhythm. Enjin’s hands slid up Tamsy’s back, feeling the delicate heat of his skin through his thin silk pajamas. He pulled Tamsy flush against him, his lips moving with a newfound confidence.

Tamsy let out a soft hum against Enjin’s mouth, his fingers tangling in the dark hair at the nape of Enjin’s neck. He tasted like a recovery. Like a beginning.

When they finally broke apart, both of them were breathing a little harder. Tamsy’s cheeks were pink again, but this time, it wasn't from a fever.

"Okay," Tamsy whispered, his thumb brushing over Enjin’s swollen lower lip. "You can stay for breakfast. But you have to make those peasant eggs you told me about. The ones with the cheap cheese."

Enjin laughed, pulling Tamsy back down into a hug, burying his face in the crook of the boy’s neck. "They're called scrambled eggs, Tamsy. And yeah. I’ll make them."

"Good," Tamsy said, closing his eyes and melting into the embrace. "And Enjin?"

"Yeah?"

"Wear the hoodie. I like the way it looks on you when you’re in my kitchen."

Enjin smiled into Tamsy’s shoulder. The road ahead was winding, dangerous, and completely unmapped—but as he held the Ghost in the golden morning light, Enjin realized he had never been more ready to drive.

—-

The atmosphere in the Engineering Grand Hall was thick with the scent of cheap coffee, eraser dust, and the collective anxiety of eighty students facing the Calculus Midterms. It was a three-hour marathon of integration, derivatives, and soul-crushing physics.

Enjin was in the zone. He had his sleeves rolled up, revealing the veins in his forearms as he scrawled out a complex volume-of-revolution problem. He was determined. He was focused. He was...

He was being stared at.

Tamsy Caines was sitting exactly one chair away, separated only by a narrow wooden gap. He looked effortlessly stunning even in an exam hall, wearing a cream-colored turtleneck that made his white hair look like spun sugar. He was leaning his chin on his hand, twirling a high-end fountain pen, and looking at Enjin with an expression that was halfway between boredom and mischief.

Enjin pointedly ignored him. Focus, Enjin. The redline is the limit. Solve for x.

Suddenly, a soft, frustrated huff came from the right. Tamsy began shaking his pen aggressively. He tapped it against the desk. He looked at the tip with a dramatic pout. Then, he leaned over, way further than a "socially acceptable" distance for an exam.

"Butler," Tamsy whispered, the sound barely a breath, but it hit Enjin’s ear like a lightning bolt. "My pen. It’s dead. It has ceased to be aesthetic."

"Shh!" Enjin hissed, his face heating up. "Borrow one from the proctor."

"No. Their pens are plastic. They’ll give me a blister," Tamsy whispered back, his eyes dancing with a challenge. "Give me yours. The one in your pocket."

Enjin groaned internally. He reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a spare pilot pen. He didn't hand it over the desk where the proctor could see. Instead, he reached down, passing it through the shadows beneath the long, shared wooden table.

He expected Tamsy to just grab it. He was wrong.

Under the desk, hidden from the world, Tamsy’s hand didn't just take the pen. His slender, cool fingers wrapped around Enjin’s hand, pulling it toward his own lap. Enjin’s heart did a violent somersault. He tried to pull back, but Tamsy’s grip was surprisingly firm.

Tamsy’s fingers began to trace the rough, calloused palm of Enjin’s hand—the "mechanical" hands he claimed to hate—drawing slow, lazy circles.

"Tamsy, stop," Enjin mouthed, his eyes wide as he stared at his exam paper. He was currently trying to integrate a function, but his brain had forgotten what a number was.

Tamsy didn't stop. He leaned back in his chair, looking perfectly innocent to anyone watching from above, but underneath, he shifted his leg. His knee, covered in expensive slacks, pressed firmly against Enjin’s denim-clad thigh. He didn't just brush it; he leaned into it, creating a point of heat that made Enjin’s entire lower half feel like it was on fire.

Pulse: 140 BPM. Vision: Blurring. Calculus: Impossible.

Enjin was sweating. He looked at his paper. It should be a normal math equation, but Enjin can see it differently.

The integral of 'I'm going to die' with respect to x is Tamsy Caines plus the constant C. (in equation form)

[explanation: the "sum" of all his panic and the "rate of change" in his heart leads to one constant result: Tamsy Caines. The + C is the "constant" in calculus, implying that no matter what happens, Tamsy is the permanent factor in his life now] a/n: sorry haha, this is just really important for the story progress.

"Give me... the pen..." Enjin whispered through gritted teeth.

Tamsy finally took the pen, but as he did, his fingers slid slowly down the length of Enjin's, his pinky hooking into Enjin’s for a fleeting, agonizing second. It was a secret mark. A claim made in the middle of a crowded room.

Tamsy pulled back, finally clicking the pen and starting to write with a smug, satisfied smirk.

Enjin, on the other hand, was a wreck. His hand was still hovering in the air under the desk, tingling from the contact. His leg was vibrating. He looked at the clock, two hours left. He looked at his exam, he had only finished Page 1.

He glanced at Tamsy. The white-haired boy was breezing through the equations, looking as cool as a winter morning. He noticed Enjin looking and didn't turn his head, but he did something worse.

He stretched his legs out under the table, hooking his foot behind Enjin’s ankle and pulling it slightly toward him.

I am going to fail this class, Enjin thought, his heart thudding so loudly he was sure the Professor could hear it. And I’m going to thank him for it.

He took a deep breath, gripped his own pen until his knuckles turned white, and tried to focus on the math. But every time his knee brushed Tamsy’s, or he felt that foot hooked around his ankle, a jagged, electric thrill shot up his spine.

It was here, in the silence of the exam hall, where every secret touch felt like a roar.

When the bell finally rang, Enjin scrambled to turn in his paper, his signature looking like a jagged EKG line. He bolted for the exit, needing air, needing to escape the suffocating pull of the boy in Row 3.

"Enjin! Wait up!"

Tamsy caught up to him in the hallway, looking radiant while everyone else looked like zombies. He handed the pen back, his fingers lingering on Enjin’s palm as he dropped it there.

"Thanks for the pen, Butler," Tamsy whispered, leaning in so close his white hair tickled Enjin’s ear. "You looked very... focused. Your pulse was jumping in your neck. It was very distracting for my 'aesthetic' concentration."

"I hate you," Enjin breathed, though his hand was already reaching out to steady Tamsy by the waist.

"Liar," Tamsy smirked. "You love the friction. See you in the bunker?"

Enjin watched him walk away, the black "Red 08" hoodie swaying with Tamsy’s hips. He looked down at his hand—the pen was still warm from Tamsy’s grip.

"Yeah," Enjin whispered to the empty hall. "See you in the bunker."

—-

3:39 AM. The bunker was cold, but the air was thick with the scent of motor oil and the low hum of the portable heater. Enjin was sitting on a low stool, his back aching, staring at the exposed wiring of the Red 08. The adrenaline from the exam had long since faded, replaced by a hollow, quiet exhaustion.

The heavy steel door groaned open.

Enjin didn't even turn around. He knew the rhythm of those footsteps—they were lighter than his, more deliberate. He heard the crinkle of a plastic carrier bag.

Tamsy didn't make a grand entrance. He didn't complain about the dust or the "peasant" lighting. He simply walked over and sat down directly on the oil-stained concrete floor right next to Enjin’s boots. He was wearing an oversized cream sweater and thick socks—no silk, no designer trench coat. Just Tamsy.

"You're going to ruin that sweater," Enjin said softly, finally looking down.

"It’s just wool, Enjin. It can be replaced," Tamsy replied, handing him a condensation-covered cup. "You, however, look like you're about to short-circuit. Drink your caffeine."

It was a white chocolate mocha—extra shots, just the way Enjin liked it.

Enjin took a sip, the sugar hitting his system like a jump-start. He slid off his stool and sat on the floor beside Tamsy, their shoulders brushing. For the first time, there was no bickering. No masks. Just two boys sitting in the belly of a garage in the middle of the night.

"What are you going to do after this?" Enjin asked, staring at the red paint of his car. "After Saint Akuta’s? After the Calculus, and the mansions?"

Tamsy leaned his head back against the cold metal of the tool cabinet. "My father wants me to handle the firm's logistics. To turn art into spreadsheets. He wants me to be a statue in a suit." He looked at his pale hands, then at Enjin’s grease-stained ones. "I think I’d rather be a ghost in a bunker."

Enjin looked at him, really looked at him. "You’re too loud to be a statue, Tamsy. You’re meant to build things. To break things."

"And you?" Tamsy whispered. "The Red 08? The professional circuit?"

"I want to drive," Enjin said, his voice firm. "But I don't want to drive alone anymore. I think... I think I've been racing toward a finish line that didn't exist until I met you."

The honesty hung in the air, sweet and heavy. Tamsy reached out, his pinky hooking into Enjin’s—the same way he had under the desk—but this time, it was slow, steady, and certain.

The quiet was shattered by the aggressive vibration of Tamsy’s phone on the concrete. Tamsy checked the screen and sighed, a small, tired smile on his lips.

"It's Riyo," Tamsy said. He hit speaker. "Yes, Riyo? It is three in the morning. Why are you screaming?"

"Tamsy! You won't believe it!" Riyo’s voice exploded through the phone, sounding frantic and annoyed. "My brother is not home. AGAIN! He’s probably out with some random girl or at some illegal race in the mud. I’m telling you, Tamsy, I’m going to lock him out of the house. I am so tired of being the only responsible one in this family!"

Tamsy let out a soft, melodic laugh, looking at Enjin with mischievous eyes. "Riyo, darling, breathe. Maybe he’s just... occupied."

"Occupied with what? Stupidity? Engines? I swear, if he comes home smelling like gasoline one more time—"

Tamsy suddenly smirked and handed the phone to Enjin. Enjin’s eyes went wide. He shook his head frantically, but Tamsy just winked, mouthing: Go on, Butler.

"Riyo," Enjin said, his voice deep and calm.

The silence on the other end of the line was instantaneous. It was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

"...Enjin?" Riyo’s voice was small, confused, and slowly rising in pitch. "Wait. Why are you on Tamsy’s phone? Why is it three in the morning? Why are you guys together? Did he kidnap you? Are you fixing his sink?"

Tamsy leaned into the phone, his voice clear and sounding more confident than Enjin had ever heard it. "He’s not fixing my sink, Riyo. He’s here because I love him."

Enjin’s heart stopped. He expected Tamsy to say "He's my friend" or "He's helping me study." But the "L" word? In front of Riyo?

"WHAT?!" Riyo screamed. "Tamsy! Is he toying with you? Is he making you sit on the floor? I knew it! I am going to kick his ass! Enjin, if you hurt my friend, I will dismantle your car with my bare hands!"

Enjin took the phone back, his hand steady even though his pulse was racing. He looked Tamsy in the eyes—those beautiful, arrogant, honest eyes—and made his choice.

"Riyo," Enjin said, his voice dropping into a tone of absolute surrender. "I’m sorry. You can kick my ass later. But I’m in love with your friend. And I’m not letting him go."

On the other end, Riyo made a sound like a dying bird. "I... I need to sit down. I’m just dreaming right.”

Click.

Tamsy leaned over, laughing so hard he had to rest his head on Enjin’s shoulder. Enjin pulled him close, kissing the top of his white hair.

"You're dead," Tamsy giggled. "Riyo is definitely going to kill you."

"Worth it," Enjin whispered, pulling Tamsy into his lap. "Totally worth it."

He didn't care about the oil stains on his pants or the fact that Tamsy’s expensive wool sweater was bunching up. He just needed him close.

Tamsy didn't resist. He sat sideways across Enjin’s thighs, his arms naturally winding around Enjin’s neck. He looked smaller like this, stripped of his height and his "Ghost" persona. In the dim, amber glow of the workbench lamp, Tamsy’s skin looked like polished marble, and his eyes were dark with a soft, hazy warmth.

"You're a dead man, you know," Tamsy whispered, his breath puffing against the shell of Enjin’s ear. "Riyo has a very long memory for things like this."

"Let her come," Enjin rumbled, his voice vibrating deep in his chest. "I’ve survived crashes at a hundred miles an hour. I think I can handle your best friend."

Enjin’s hands, still rough and slightly stained with the day’s work, slid under the hem of Tamsy’s oversized sweater. He expected Tamsy to flinch at the coldness of his fingers, but the boy only let out a shaky, melodic hum, arching his back as Enjin’s palms settled against the warm, bare skin of his waist.

The contrast was staggering. Enjin felt heavy, solid, and rugged; Tamsy felt like silk and glass.

"Your heart is still going fast," Tamsy murmured, pulling back just enough to look at Enjin. He reached out, his slender fingers tracing the racing pulse in Enjin’s neck, before sliding down to the center of his chest. He pressed his palm flat against the fabric of Enjin’s hoodie, right over his heart. "It’s louder than the engine."

"That’s your fault," Enjin admitted, his voice dropping into a rougher, more intimate register.

He leaned in, his nose brushing against Tamsy’s. He didn't go for a kiss immediately. Instead, he nuzzled into the crook of Tamsy’s neck, inhaling the scent that had haunted him for months—vanilla, expensive laundry soap, and that faint, sharp tang of the rain still clinging to his hair. Enjin’s lips grazed the sensitive skin just below Tamsy's ear, making the smaller boy shiver violently.

"Enjin..." Tamsy’s voice was a broken rasp. He pulled Enjin’s head back up, his eyes searching Enjin’s with a raw, terrifying vulnerability. "Don't just... don't be a coward again tomorrow. If the sun comes up and you go back to being 'the racer' who doesn't know me..."

Enjin didn't let him finish. He captured Tamsy’s lips in a kiss that was slow, deep, and devastatingly honest. It wasn't the frantic struggle of the bunker door or the playful tease of the exam hall. It was a promise.

Enjin’s tongue tasted the lingering sweetness of the mocha, his teeth grazing Tamsy’s lower lip just enough to draw a soft, desperate whimper from the back of the boy's throat. Tamsy’s hands tangled in Enjin’s dark hair, pulling him closer as if he were trying to pull Enjin’s very soul into his lungs.

He shifted his weight, straddling Enjin’s lap completely now. The friction of Tamsy’s legs against Enjin’s hips sent a jolt of pure fire through Enjin’s veins. He broke the kiss, his forehead resting against Tamsy’s, both of them gasping for air in the cramped space.

"I’m done with the straight lines, Ghost," Enjin breathed, his hands sliding up Tamsy’s spine, feeling every delicate vertebra. "From now on, I’m only driving where you are. I don't care who sees. I don't care who's calling."

Tamsy let out a soft, happy sob—a sound that was half-laugh, half-cry. He buried his face in Enjin’s neck, his teeth nipping lightly at the tendon there, a small, possessive mark of his own.

"Good," Tamsy whispered into the darkness. "Because I’m not letting anyone else sit in my passenger seat."

They stayed there for a long time, tangled together on the greasy floor, the "Red 08" standing guard over them.

 In the 3 AM quiet of the bunker, they weren't the Racer or the Ghost. They were just two people who had finally stopped running and found themselves exactly where they were meant to be.

–

The morning after the 3 AM coffee—and much to Enjin’s quiet astonishment—he woke up in his own bed, alone. Tamsy, true to his word, hadn't held him hostage. He'd simply kissed him goodnight at the bunker door, a soft, lingering promise, and then vanished into the pre-dawn mist. Enjin had driven home in a daze, feeling lighter than air, the memory of Tamsy’s body in his lap a sweet, intimate ache.

He woke up feeling… happy. Genuinely, terrifyingly, irreversibly happy.

He rolled over, grabbed his phone, and saw the first sign of impending doom.

[Group Chat: The Redline Crew]

Gris [7:03 AM] : @thetamsy just posted a story.

 Zodyl [7:04 AM]: Oh my GOD. 

Corvus [7:04 AM]: WHAT IS THAT. 

Gris [7:05 AM]: @Enjin. You see this??

Enjin[7:05 AM]:?

Enjin’s blood ran cold. Tamsy had posted a story? After what they’d just shared? His thumb trembled as he clicked the Instagram icon, navigating to Tamsy’s profile.

The story was a photo dump—a "morning after" aesthetic montage. A half-eaten bowl of Enjin’s scrambled eggs with cheap cheese, artfully arranged next to a high-end coffee mug. A blurry selfie of Tamsy wrapped in a duvet, his messy white hair obscuring half his face, looking soft and adorable. And then, the final slide.

It was a close-up shot. A pair of hands, rough, strong, and unmistakably stained with grease and motor oil, gripping a racing-style steering wheel. A flash of the Red 08’s crimson dashboard was visible in the background. The hands were unmistakably Enjin’s. He would recognize those calluses anywhere.

The caption under the photo was simple, almost innocent.

thetamsy: Some mornings are just better than others. 😌🍳🏎️✨

Enjin’s phone started exploding in his hand. The group chat was already a warzone.

[Group Chat: The Redline Crew]

Zodyl [7:06 AM]: WHOSE HANDS ARE THOSE. 

Corvus  [7:07 AM]: TELL ME THAT IS NOT WHO I THINK IT IS. 

Regto  [7:07 AM]: @EnjinK. YOU GOT SOME EXPLAINING TO DO, BRO. 

Zodyl [7:08 AM]: THE RED 08 DASHBOARD! THE GREASE! THE HOODIE IN THE LAST STORY! 

Gris [7:08 AM]: IS THAT WHY YOU MISSED PRACTICE YESTERDAY?! BECAUSE YOU WERE BUSY BEING A... A PEASANT-BOYFRIEND?! 

Enjin [7:09 AM]: It’s not what it looks like. 

Gris [7:09 AM]: It looks like you spent the night at the Caines mansion, Enjin. 

Zodyl [7:10 AM]: And then made him eggs. 

Gountess [7:10 AM]: AND YOU KISSED HIM IN THE BUNKER! DON'T LIE! 

Enjin [7:11 AM]: Everyone, please, calm down.

Enjin’s heart was hammering against his ribs. He felt a wave of icy panic. This wasn't how he planned to come out. This wasn't how he planned to tell his friends. It was a digital explosion, a "Hard Launch" he hadn't approved, and he felt utterly exposed.

He quickly called Tamsy. The line rang twice, then Tamsy’s smooth, annoyingly calm voice answered.

"Good morning, Butler," Tamsy purred, a hint of amusement in his tone. "Did you sleep well? You seem... agitated."

"Tamsy, what the hell did you do?!" Enjin hissed, pulling the phone away from his ear as another notification from the group chat went off. "My entire life just exploded! My friends think I'm dating you!"

"Oh?" Tamsy said, sounding far too innocent. "And is that so terrible? I thought we agreed that the 'straight line' was boring. And besides, I believe your direct quote was, 'I'm done with the straight lines, Ghost. From now on, I’m only driving where you are.'"

"You can't just 'hard launch' our... whatever this is... on Instagram!"

"Why not?" Tamsy’s voice was suddenly colder, losing its playful edge. "Were you going to wait until your 'reputation' was safe again? Because I'm quite tired of being a secret, Enjin. I thought we established that last night, too."

Enjin flinched. The words hit him hard. Tamsy was right. He had been so focused on the panic of being exposed that he hadn't considered the relief Tamsy must be feeling, or the quiet strength it took to put that picture out there.

[Group Chat: The Redline Crew]

Zodyl [7:15 AM]: @Enjin. You better be on your way to the garage. We need answers.

 Gris [7:15 AM]: And coffee. This is going to be a long day. 

Regto  [7:16 AM]: I'M COMING FOR YOU, ENJIN . YOU ARE DEAD.

Enjin sighed, running a hand through his hair. He looked at Tamsy’s profile picture—the soft, slightly pouty smile.

"Fine," Enjin said into the phone, his voice laced with resignation, but also a strange, buzzing excitement. "You win. But you owe me a lifetime supply of white chocolate mochas for this."

“I really haven’t ask you… but yeah, I love you, Tamsy Caines.”

“Oh yes, I know that, silly, you didn’t have to tell me. I love you too” Tamsy replied. "A fair price for my emotional well-being," Tamsy added, and Enjin could practically hear the smirk. "Now, go face your adoring public, darling. I have an 'aesthetic crisis' to attend to before class."

As Enjin hung up, he looked at the group chat again. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, but he didn't type a denial. He typed something else.

[Group Chat: The Redline Crew]

Enjin [7:18 AM]: Be there in 20. 

He closed the app, took a deep breath, and slid out of bed. The chaos was already here. And for the first time, Enjin felt a strange, exhilarating sense of freedom. The redline wasn't just a limit anymore; it was the starting line.

—

The air at the soccer fields was thick with the scent of freshly cut grass and impending doom. Enjin was trying to keep his head down, focusing intensely on his footwork, dribbling the ball across the turf with a desperate, manic energy. He was trying to prove he was still "The Racer." Still "The Bro." Still "Straight-Line Enjin."

But he could feel them.

Gris and Zodyl weren’t even practicing. They were leaning against the goalpost, arms crossed, matching smirks plastered on their faces as they watched Enjin’s every move like a pair of suspicious detectives in a low-budget cop movie.

"You're late, Enjin," Gris called out, his voice dripping with a mock-innocence that made the hair on Enjin’s neck stand up. "Rough night? Or was the 'scenery' at the mansion just too high-definition to leave?"

"I overslept," Enjin grunted, over-kicking a ball so hard it cleared the ten-foot fence and disappeared into the parking lot. "Drop it, Gris."

"Oh, we'll drop it," Zodyl chimed in, pushing off the goalpost and walking toward the sidelines where their gear was piled up. "Right after we find out why your gym bag—which usually smells like wet dog and failure—suddenly smells like a high-end French boutique."

Enjin’s heart did a terrifying wheel-spin. He realized too late that he had left his bag unzipped. "Don't touch my bag, Zodyl! That’s a violation of bro-code!"

"Bro-code went out the window when you were posted a picture of your greasy hands on a silk bedsheet, Enj!" Zodyl shouted. He reached into the side pocket and pulled out a small, sleek, gold-capped tube. It looked like it belonged in a jewelry case, not a sweat-stained duffel.

"What's this?" Zodyl held it up like a piece of evidence at a murder trial. "Le Baume de Rose? Dior? Since when do you use luxury lip treatment that costs more than a set of spark plugs?"

"It's... it's for my chapped lips! The wind on the track is brutal this time of year!" Enjin scrambled toward them, his cleats clattering aggressively on the pavement.

Gris snatched the tube from Zodyl, uncapping it and taking a deep, theatrical sniff. "This doesn't smell like 'track wind,' bro. This smells like Tamsy Caines. Specifically, the Tamsy Caines who was sitting in your lap in that blurry photo. Is this his? Did you steal a souvenir?"

"He forgot it in the car!" Enjin shouted, his lies starting to pile up like a multi-car collision on a foggy highway. "I was just... keeping it safe! For security reasons!"

"Security reasons," Gris repeated, deadpan. He reached into the bag again and pulled out a receipt. "And is it for 'security' that you bought a $15 white chocolate mocha this morning? With four pumps of vanilla, oat milk, and—oh my god—edible gold flakes?"

Zodyl let out a high-pitched wheeze. "Edible gold? Enjin, you drink black coffee from a rusty thermos! You call anything with sugar 'dessert for losers'!"

"I'm expanding my palate!" Enjin bellowed, his face turning a shade of red that rivaled the paint on the Red 08. "I’m a refined man now! I like the way the vanilla balances the... the bitterness of my engineering soul! It’s about contrast! It’s about physics!"

"Physics?" Gris laughed so hard he had to lean on Zodyl for support. "Is that what we're calling 'The Hard Launch' now? Enjin, look at yourself. You’re literally wearing your hoodie inside out, and there is a single, silver-white hair stuck to your collar. Right. There."

Enjin panicked, eyes going wide as he started swatting at his own neck like he was being attacked by a wasp. "It’s a... it's a thread! From a towel! A very expensive, 1000-thread-count, silk-blend towel!"

"Wait," Zodyl said, his voice dropping to a whisper of pure awe as he dug even deeper into the bag. "Is this... a hand-drawn map of the Caines mansion’s garden with 'Safety Exit' written in Tamsy’s handwriting?"

Enjin lunged for the bag, but he slipped on a stray soccer ball, landing flat on his back with an undignified thud.

"Just admit it, Enj," Gris said, towering over him, grinning ear to ear. "You're whipped. You’re Tamsy-whipped. You’ve gone full 'Butler.' You probably know his entire ten-step skincare routine by heart now, don't you?"

"I don't!" Enjin yelled from the ground, his arms flailing. "I only know he uses a three-step hydration process involving rosewater and hyaluronic acid because he has 'sensitive aristocratic pores' and he hates the texture of cheap sunscreen because it makes him feel 'clogged and un-aesthetic'!"

The silence that followed was deafening.

Gris and Zodyl stared at him for three seconds. Four. Then, the explosion.

"UN-AESTHETIC?!" Zodyl screamed, doubling over and literally rolling on the grass. "SENSITIVE PORES?! He’s gone! Our top racer is worried about pores!"

"I’m not obsessed!" Enjin yelled, scrambling to his feet, his dignity in tatters. "I just listen when he talks because his voice is... is a very specific high-frequency and it’s hard to ignore for auditory data collection purposes! It’s science!"

"Auditory data collection," Gris wheezed, wiping actual tears from his eyes. "Is that what you were doing at 3 AM in his lap? Collecting data with your mouth?"

"I hate both of you! I'm leaving! I'm going to the showers to be alone with my 'bitter soul'!" Enjin snatched his Dior lip balm back, his hand shaking, and shoved it deep into his pocket.

"Don't forget to moisturize your 'aristocratic pores', Butler!" Zodyl hollered as Enjin retreated toward the locker rooms. "Wouldn't want to feel clogged before the big race!"

As Enjin slammed the locker room door shut, he leaned his forehead against the cool, dented metal. He was a mess. His reputation was a smoking wreck. He was a 200-pound, grease-stained racer who was currently carrying a rose-scented lip balm like it was a holy relic.

He pulled the tube out, looking at the gold cap. He could almost hear Tamsy’s voice calling him a "peasant" for using it. Despite the chaos, despite the fact that his friends were going to roast him for the next ten years, a small, traitorous, and incredibly soft smile tugged at his lips.

He uncapped the balm and applied it.

"Refined man," he whispered to his reflection in the cracked mirror, then sighed. "God, I’m so far gone."

1:19 PM. The sun was hitting the gold trim of the Caines mansion with an aggressive brightness that Enjin felt was personally mocking him. He slipped through the side entrance, moving like a man who had just escaped a crime scene. His hair was a disaster, his soccer jersey was rumpled, and he was still clutching that gold-capped Dior lip balm like a piece of holy shrapnel.

He headed straight for Tamsy’s room, not even bothering to knock—a boundary that had evaporated sometime between the third and fourth hour of their bunker talk. He found the "Ghost" sitting at his vanity in a silk robe that looked like it was spun from moonlight, calmly applying a expensive serum to his face.

"Butler? You’re back early," Tamsy purred, catching Enjin’s reflection in the mirror. He didn't even turn around, just tilted his head in that regal, annoying way that made Enjin’s heart skip. "Did you miss your—"

Enjin didn't let him finish. He crashed onto the velvet chaise lounge next to Tamsy and buried his face in the silk covering Tamsy’s lap, letting out a long, muffled, and truly pathetic groan.

"They found the lip balm, Tamsy," Enjin groaned into the fabric. "Gris and Zodyl. They caught me in 4K. They know about the pores. They know about the gold flakes in the coffee. I am a disgraced man. My 'bro' status has been revoked. I'm basically a social exile now."

Tamsy froze for a second, a glass dropper hovering mid-air, and then a soft, melodic giggle bubbled out of him—the kind of sound that usually made Enjin want to argue, but today it just made him want to sink deeper into the silk. Tamsy set the dropper down and began running his slender, cool fingers through Enjin’s dark, messy hair.

"Oh, poor baby," Tamsy whispered.

The pet name hit Enjin like a shot of nitrous. It was soft, casual, and slid off Tamsy’s tongue with a honey-sweetness that made Enjin’s brain stall.

"Did the big, scary soccer players make fun of your hydrated lips, baby?" Tamsy teased, his fingers gently tugging at a tangle in Enjin's hair.

Enjin looked up, his chin resting on Tamsy’s knees, eyes wide and blinking. "What did you just call me?"

Tamsy tilted his head, a mischievous, proprietary glint in his eyes. "I called you a baby. Because you’re pouting. And you’re clingy. And you’re currently shedding grease on my couture robe like a stray dog."

"I'm traumatized," Enjin murmured, but instead of pulling away, he sat up and hauled Tamsy into a crushing, needy embrace. He tucked his head into the crook of Tamsy’s neck, inhaling that signature scent of vanilla and high-end arrogance. "I need... therapeutic skinship. My mental health is at a redline. I’ve been bullied for forty-five minutes straight."

"Is that so, baby?" Tamsy breathed, his hands winding around Enjin’s neck, pulling him closer until their noses brushed. "And what does this 'therapy' involve?"

Enjin’s hands settled firmly on Tamsy’s waist, his thumbs dipping under the silk tie of the robe. "It involves you being quiet and letting me—"

DING-DONG.

The doorbell echoed through the mansion like a death knell. Both boys jumped, Enjin nearly falling off the chaise.

"Who is that?" Enjin hissed, his protective "Racer" instincts instantly replaced by pure "I-must-not-be-seen" panic.

"I don't know! My mother isn't due back until Thursday!" Tamsy scrambled to the window, peeking through the curtain. His face went pale. "Oh no. Oh, absolutely not. It’s Riyo. And... and Amo is with him. They’re at the gate!"

"WHAT?!" Enjin’s voice cracked. "Riyo is going to kill me! He's been texting me all morning! And Amo... Tamsy! I can't be here!"

"Hide!" Tamsy scrambled toward the door as the sound of footsteps and laughter approached from the stairs. "The closet! Go! Now!"

"The closet? Tamsy, I'm six-foot-two! I'm an engineering student! I don't fit in—"

"GO, BABY, GO!" Tamsy shoved Enjin toward the massive walk-in closet, practically kicking him inside just as the bedroom door flew open.

Enjin hit the floor of the closet with a soft oomph. The door clicked shut, plunging him into a world of cedar wood, expensive silk, and a concentrated cloud of Tamsy’s perfume. It was like being buried alive in a luxury department store. He was huddling behind a row of $3,000 suits, trying to breathe quietly.

Outside, the bedroom door slammed open.

"Tamsy! Why are you breathing like you just ran a marathon? And why is there a soccer ball in your hallway?" Riyo’s voice was loud, sharp, and suspiciously close.

"It’s... it’s a new decor trend!" Tamsy’s voice sounded three octaves higher than normal. "Athletic-chic! Very avant-garde! Sit down! Let’s go to the kitchen! I have... artisanal water!"

"No," a deep, eccentric voice boomed. That was Amo. "Amo feels a disturbance in the aesthetic force. Amo smells... gasoline. And cheap laundry detergent. The aura of this room is contaminated by peasant energy."

Inside the closet, Enjin’s heart was hammering so hard it felt like it would rattle the coat hangers. Peasant energy? My detergent is a generic brand, but it works fine!

"Amo must investigate the closet," Amo continued. Enjin saw the shadows of feet under the closet door. "Amo thinks Tamsy is hiding a lawnmower. Or perhaps a very large, greasy dog."

For the next hour, Enjin endured a living nightmare. He was curled in a ball, clutching a white silk shirt to his face to keep from sneezing. He heard Riyo complaining about how Enjin's "bad influence" was going to ruin Tamsy’s reputation. He heard Amo talking about his "spiritual connection" to velvet for forty minutes.

"Amo is bored," Amo finally stated. "This room lacks inspiration. Riyo, let us take Tamsy to the bakery. Amo requires a croissant to heal his aura."

"Fine," Riyo sighed. "Tamsy, get your shoes. And don't think I've forgotten about the soccer ball. I'm calling a forensic team."

Enjin heard the bedroom door close. He waited. One minute. Two. His legs were cramping. His back ached. He smelled like a bouquet of roses.

The closet door creaked open. Tamsy stood there, looking exhausted but triumphant, his silver hair a complete mess from the stress.

"You can come out now, my brave little lawnmower," Tamsy whispered, reaching a hand into the darkness.

Enjin crawled out, his limbs stiff, and immediately stood up, towering over Tamsy. Without a word, he grabbed Tamsy by the waist and pulled him back into the closet, pinning him against the rack of suits and closing the door behind them.

"Amo thinks I’m a lawnmower?" Enjin growled playfully, his voice low and vibrating in the small space. "And you... you just stood there while they roasted my aura?"

Tamsy laughed, a soft, breathless sound, wrapping his arms around Enjin’s neck. The closet was dark, smelling of cedar and Tamsy. "I was protecting you, baby. If Riyo saw you in there, he would have called a priest. You looked very cute hiding behind my blazers, by the way."

"I hated every second of it," Enjin muttered, but his hands were busy pulling Tamsy closer, his forehead resting against the boy's. "I missed you. And it's only been an hour."

"I missed you too, baby," Tamsy whispered, his fingers tracing the "Red 08" logo on Enjin’s chest.

Enjin leaned in, his lips grazing Tamsy’s ear. "Say it again."

"What? Baby?" Tamsy teased, nipping at Enjin’s jawline. "Baby, baby, baby. My sweet, greasy, lawnmower baby."

Enjin groaned and captured Tamsy’s lips in a kiss that was deep, desperate, and filled with the pent-up tension of the last hour. Tamsy hummed into the kiss, his legs wrapping around Enjin’s waist as Enjin lifted him up, the two of them lost in the quiet, silk-scented darkness of the closet.

"I’m never hiding again," Enjin breathed against his lips.

"Good," Tamsy smiled, his eyes shining in the sliver of light from the door. "Because I think I like the lawnmower better when he's loud."

—

After weeks. The air in the bunker had changed. It was thick, humid, and heavy with the scent of Tamsy’s vanilla skin and Enjin’s woodsy sweat. The hum of the heater was the only thing filling the silence as they sat on the worn leather bench, but even that was drowned out by the thudding of two hearts beating in a rhythm that was fast, desperate, and undeniable.

Enjin’s hands, the large, rough hands that usually handled steel and iron—were trembling as they slid under the hem of Tamsy’s silk shirt. He let out a low, shaky breath when his palms finally met Tamsy’s bare waist. Tamsy was so warm, his skin feeling like heated satin against Enjin’s callouses.

"Enjin..." Tamsy’s voice was a broken, breathy rasp, his head falling back as Enjin’s lips found the sensitive hollow of his throat.

"I've got you," Enjin muttered, his voice dropping into a guttural, primal register. "I've got you, baby."

He pulled Tamsy flush against him, lifting him until Tamsy was straddling his lap, their bodies fitting together like two gears finally clicking into place after years of grinding. The intimacy was suffocating in the best way. Enjin’s mouth moved from Tamsy’s neck to his jaw, then finally to his lips in a kiss that tasted like a total surrender. It wasn't just a kiss; it was a conversation—an admission of everything they had been too scared to say.

Tamsy’s fingers tangled deep into Enjin’s dark hair, pulling him closer, his nails grazing Enjin’s scalp. He was making tiny, needy sounds in the back of his throat that were driving Enjin insane. Enjin’s grip on Tamsy’s waist tightened, his thumbs tracing the line of Tamsy’s spine, making the smaller boy arch into him with a soft, desperate cry.

"You’re mine," Tamsy whispered against Enjin’s lips, his eyes dark, hazy, and completely focused on the man holding him. "Tell me you’re mine."

"Yours," Enjin groaned, his face buried in Tamsy’s neck. "Only yours."

In a surge of pure, unadulterated possessiveness, Tamsy tilted Enjin’s head back. He wanted to leave a reminder. He wanted something that wouldn't wash off. He sank his teeth into the column of Enjin’s neck, right above the collarbone. He bit down—just hard enough to make Enjin hiss—and then sucked the skin with a desperate, lingering heat.

Enjin’s entire body went rigid. A low, vibrating growl started in his chest as he felt the sting and the heat of Tamsy marking him. He felt the dampness of Tamsy’s tongue, the sharpness of the claim. It was an branding.

They were so close to losing it—Enjin’s hand was already moving to the button of Tamsy’s trousers, his breath hitching—when a loud, metallic CLANG echoed through the bunker. A stack of empty oil cans had finally succumbed to the vibrations of their movement and tumbled over.

The spell broke. They both froze, gasping for air, chests heaving against each other.

Enjin looked at Tamsy—his white hair was a wild halo, his lips were swollen and red, and his eyes were swimming with a beautiful, terrifying vulnerability.

"God," Enjin rasped, resting his forehead against Tamsy’s. He was shaking. "Tamsy... if we don't stop right now, I'm going to ruin you for anyone else."

Tamsy reached up, his thumb brushing the dark, purple-red mark he had just bloomed on Enjin’s neck. He smiled, a slow, triumphant, and devastatingly beautiful look. "Good. That was the point, baby."

The Next Morning: 9:30 AM. The sun was a vengeful, blazing god. It was 35°C (95°F), and the humidity in the school was so thick it felt like walking through warm soup.

Enjin. walked across the university courtyard looking like a total lunatic. He was wearing his thickest, heaviest "Red 08" black hoodie. The zipper was pulled all the way to his chin, and the hood was up. Sweat was literally dripping from the tip of his nose.

"Enjin, bro, you’re going to die," Gris said, fanning himself with a notebook. "It’s ninety-five degrees. Why are you dressed like you’re in the Arctic?"

"I'm... I'm feeling a bit under the weather," Enjin lied, his voice sounding strangled because the zipper was digging into his throat. "Chills. Very localized chills on my neck."

"Localized chills?" Zodyl squinted, reaching for the zipper. "Let me see. Maybe it's a rash—"

"DON'T TOUCH THE ZIPPER!" Enjin barked, swatting Zodyl’s hand away.

Suddenly, Tamsy strolled past them, looking fresh, cool, and utterly radiant in a sleeveless silk shirt. He looked like he hadn't spent the night on a greasy bunker floor. He stopped, turned back, and looked Enjin up and down with a devilish smirk.

"Morning, baby," Tamsy purred, his voice carrying perfectly across the quiet courtyard. "You look... toasted. Are you sure you don't want to zip down? It's awfully hot."

"I'm fine, Tamsy," Enjin hissed through gritted teeth.

Tamsy stepped closer, his hand reaching out to "adjust" the hood. As he did, his fingers purposely tugged the fabric down just enough for the edge of the dark, violent hickey to peak out.

"Oh," Tamsy whispered, leaning into Enjin’s ear so only he could hear. "It looks even better in the daylight. Everyone's going to know you were a very good boy last night."

Tamsy patted Enjin’s chest and walked away, his laughter echoing.

Gris and Zodyl stared at Enjin’s neck. Then at each other.

"A HICKEY?!" Zodyl’s scream could be heard in the next building. 

"I AM GOING TO EXPLAIN THIS WITH MY FISTS!" Enjin roared, sprinting after a laughing Tamsy while his friends doubled over in the dirt, howling with laughter.

–

The Pit Stop. The air at the docks smelled like salt and old engine oil. Enjin was leaning against his car, the Red 08, trying to look cool. But he kept adjusting his collar. He was trying to hide the dark purple mark on his neck—the hickey Tamsy had left there last night.

His friends, the Redline Crew, were not making it easy.

"Look at him," Gris laughed, pointing at Enjin. "The 'Red Ghost' is whipped. You’re not a racer anymore, man. You’re just a servant for that bratty fashion kid."

"Yeah," Zodyl added, leaning against a pile of tires. "Does he let you drive your own car, or do you just carry his shopping bags all day? You used to be a legend. Now you’re just an accessory for a guy who’s too pretty for his own good."

Enjin looked at the ground. He didn't say anything. He was used to their "bro-logic" and didn't feel like explaining that he actually liked taking care of Tamsy.

But he didn't realize Tamsy was standing right behind the corner of the trailer.

Tamsy stood frozen. He was holding two cups of expensive coffee. He had spent twenty minutes making sure the order was perfect—exactly how Enjin liked it.

But hearing the word "accessory" felt like a slap in the face.

Tamsy looked down at his own expensive boots and his perfectly styled hair. He suddenly felt out of place. He realized these people saw him as a burden—a "brat" who was ruining Enjin’s reputation.

Maybe they’re right, Tamsy thought. His chest felt heavy. He is a legend here. And I’m just... a distraction.

Without a word, Tamsy set the coffee cups down on a rusted metal barrel. He didn't want Enjin to see him cry. He turned around and started walking away, his heels clicking quietly on the pavement. He kept his head high, trying to act like his heart wasn't breaking.

Enjin saw a flash of silver hair in the distance. His heart skipped a beat. He knew that walk. That was Tamsy’s "I’m leaving and I’m never coming back" walk.

"Tamsy?" Enjin called out.

"Let him go, Jin!" Gris shouted. "Come on, let’s talk about the race tonight."

Enjin looked at his friends. Then he looked at Tamsy’s retreating back. Suddenly, he didn't care about being a "masculine pillar" or a "legend."

He jumped. Not just onto the curb, but right onto the hood of his car. The Red 08—the car he never let anyone touch.

"HEY! TAMSY! STOP WALKING!" Enjin yelled.

The entire dock went silent. Everyone turned to look at him. Tamsy stopped but didn't turn around.

"LISTEN TO ME!" Enjin pointed at his friends. "HE’S NOT AN ACCESSORY! AND I’M NOT HIS SERVANT!"

Enjin took a deep breath and shouted as loud as he could, his voice echoing over the water.

"I LOVE HIM! DO YOU HEAR ME? I LOVE THAT BRAT!"

Tamsy slowly turned around. His eyes were wide and wet with tears.

"I LOVE HIM EVEN IF HE’S ANNOYING!" Enjin continued, standing tall on his car. "I LOVE HIM EVEN IF HE MAKES ME WAKE UP AT 4:00 AM! I LOVE HIM EVEN IF HIS COFFEE COSTS MORE THAN MY TIRES!"

Enjin looked directly at Tamsy, his face red but his eyes full of pride.

"HE’S NOT A DISTRACTION! HE’S MY FINISH LINE! SO IF ANY OF YOU HAVE A PROBLEM WITH HIM, YOU HAVE A PROBLEM WITH ME!"

Tamsy walked back slowly. He looked at Enjin standing on the car, looking like a fool, but a very brave fool.

Tamsy stopped in front of the car and looked up. "You’re getting footprints on the paint," he whispered, his voice shaking.

Enjin jumped down and stood right in front of him. He didn't care who was watching. "I told you I’d shout it, didn’t I?"

Tamsy wiped a tear from his cheek and tried to look bratty again, but he couldn't stop smiling. "Your voice is too loud. And your friends are idiots. But..."

He reached up, grabbed Enjin’s hoodie, and pulled him down into a kiss.

"...I guess you’re my idiot now."

"Always," Enjin whispered against his lips.

The "Redline" underground forums were still in a total meltdown. A blurry video of the legendary, grumpy "Red Ghost" standing on his car and screaming about skincare had gone viral. The comments were a chaotic mix of:

• “Wait, did he just say he loves him more than his tires? Is he okay??”
• “RIP to the Red Ghost. We lost him to the fashion world.”
• “Honestly? Relationship goals.”

Enjin didn't care. He hadn’t logged into the forum in days. He had better things to look at.

They were in the back corner of the university library, hidden behind a stack of dusty law books. It was quiet, the late afternoon sun streaming through the window, turning everything a warm, honey gold.

Enjin was trying to study for his Calculus final, but his focus was at a steady 0%. Next to him, Tamsy was sprawled out, using Enjin’s thigh as a pillow. Tamsy had his "workstation" set up—which was really just three different luxury lip balms and a sketchbook.

"Baby," Tamsy murmured, not looking up from his drawing. "Your leg is too muscular. It’s like sleeping on a rock. Do something about it."

Enjin let out a soft huff, but he didn't move. Instead, he reached down and started idly playing with Tamsy’s silver hair, his grease-stained fingers looking so dark against the bright strands. "You’re the one who chose to sit here, Babe. There's a whole sofa over there."

"The sofa doesn't smell like you," Tamsy grumbled, finally closing his sketchbook and looking up. His eyes were soft, devoid of the "ghostly" sadness from the docks. He looked well-fed, well-loved, and completely at peace.

Enjin’s heart did that weird skip-jump it always did. He put his pen down and leaned over. "You know, I was thinking about that 'Integration' lesson again."

Tamsy groaned, a pretty pout forming on his lips. "No more math, Enjin. My brain is only for aesthetics today."

"Just listen," Enjin whispered, his voice dropping to that low, gravelly tone that always made Tamsy’s breath hitch. "In Calculus, integration is about finding the area under a curve. It’s about filling in all the empty spaces until you have a whole shape."

He traced the line of Tamsy’s jaw with his thumb, his touch uncharacteristically gentle.

"Before you... my life had a lot of empty spaces. I had the car, I had the races, I had the 4:00 AM drives. But it was just lines. No shape. No color." Enjin leaned down until their foreheads touched. "You filled in all the spaces, Tamsy. You're the reason the math finally adds up."

Tamsy’s "bratty" mask completely melted. He reached up, his small, soft hands cupping Enjin’s face, pulling him closer. "You're so cheesy," Tamsy whispered, his voice trembling just a little. "It’s actually embarrassing. If Riyo heard you, she’d record it and play it at our wedding."

Enjin didn't flinch at the word wedding. He just smiled—a real, wide, proud smile. "Let her. I’ll say it louder then."

Tamsy let out a tiny, shaky laugh and pulled Enjin down into a kiss. It wasn't like the frantic, desperate kiss at the docks. This one was slow. It tasted like Tamsy’s expensive cherry lip balm and the sweet, lingering scent of the white chocolate mocha they had shared earlier.

When they pulled apart, Tamsy tucked his head under Enjin’s chin, smelling the familiar scent of laundry detergent and faint engine oil. It was his favorite smell in the world.

"Enjin?"

"Yeah?"

"I’m still not riding in the Red 08 if you don't vacuum the floor mats," Tamsy said, his voice muffled against Enjin’s chest.

Enjin laughed, his chest vibrating against Tamsy’s cheek. He wrapped his arms tightly around his "Goth Ghost," holding him like he was the most precious thing he had ever built.

"I already vacuumed them this morning, Babe. Twice."

"Good," Tamsy whispered, closing his eyes. "Then you can drive me to get sushi. 4:00 AM. Don't be late."

Enjin kissed the top of his head, his heart finally, perfectly quiet. "I’m never late for you."