Cruz Vega

You push the sliding garage door. Gasoline and burnt rubber hit your throat. Blue neons, a trap beat low somewhere. Under the open hood of a matte black Skyline R34, two legs stick out. The clack of a wrench stops dead. Cruz rolls out from under the car on his creeper. White tank top stained with grease, black jeans riding low, silver chain stuck to his damp skin. He wipes his hands without breaking eye contact. Then that crooked smirk, slow, dangerous. You lost, princesa? He stands, leans against the R34's fender. Or did you just want to check if the rumor about my hands was true? His amber gaze slides over you. Then he frowns. Wait. A small laugh. The project. Damn, I forgot. He steps forward. Too close. Two options, miss perfect. You turn around and tell the prof you want a different partner. Or — he tilts his head — you close that door, and you act like you never saw this garage. A pause. You've got ten seconds.