Turbocharged Pt. 01

Chapter 1 -- Orientation

The garage smelled like heat.

Like rubber, oil, and something metallic that clung to the back of your throat. Natalia stood just inside the open bay door, letting the filtered sun catch her face as she adjusted her grip on the worn leather strap of her tote. The space didn't feel like a classroom--it felt like a machine still catching its breath.

The overhead lights buzzed above the rows of workbenches, steel trays, and half-disassembled engine blocks. Air compressors exhaled in the background, rhythmic and slow, like the building itself had lungs. The lift bays were quiet for now, but the room held a kind of weight, as if everything in it had a memory. As if the concrete floor had heard things.

She didn't belong here. Not by résumé, not by lineage. And that, if anything, made her want to stay.

Natalia crossed her arms beneath the soft drape of her hoodie and scanned the space, eyes sharp beneath lashes she hadn't bothered to mascara this morning. Her espresso-dark hair was pulled into a loose knot, damp at the nape from the coastal humidity. She hadn't even touched her notebook.

Instead, she listened.

The professor stood at the front, backlit by a fluorescent halo and the scribbled mess of diagrams on the whiteboard behind him--exploded engine views, pressure charts, hand-sketched torque curves. His voice was low and unpolished, not loud but clear, the kind of voice that didn't chase attention. It invited you to keep up or fall behind.

He was talking about combustion cycles now--compression ratios, air-fuel mixtures, the delicate balance of timing and pressure. But to Natalia, it sounded like poetry.

Combustion isn't chaos, he said, chalk squeaking faintly. It's choreography. Everything moving in rhythm. Controlled detonation. Power, with boundaries.

That line stuck. It lingered.

She leaned against the cool metal of the tool cabinet and let her gaze drift--not at the boys in the row ahead who kept glancing back at her, not at the kid next to her whose pen never stopped tapping--but at him. The professor.

He barely looked her way.

But once--just once--their eyes met. Mid-sentence. And it wasn't a flinch or a falter. It was... awareness.

Not desire. Not yet.

But something just as dangerous.

Chapter 2 -- The Apartment

The apartment smelled like rosemary and sea air.

Natalia shut the door behind her with a soft push, the deadbolt clicking into place with a hollow little thunk that echoed through the stillness. Barefoot, she padded across warm hardwood floors, past sun-bleached windows and the sprawl of her open kitchen, exhaling slowly as she peeled off her hoodie and let it fall across a dining chair.

It was quiet here. Not the kind of silence that comforted. The kind that revealed.

Her phone buzzed on the counter.

Mother.

She rolled her eyes before she picked up.

The conversation lasted exactly six minutes. Long enough for her mother to ask shallow questions with a chirped sweetness Natalia knew was performative--was expected--and long enough for Natalia to give answers that meant nothing.

"Yes, it's good here."

"No, I haven't met anyone."

"Yes, I'm eating."

She ended the call mid-sentence. Her thumb hovered over the screen for a moment before she turned it face-down.

In the kitchen, she pulled a bundle of herbs from the ceramic wall hook--dried bay, fennel stalks, citrus leaves. The smell grounded her. She washed rice slowly, methodically, watching the water cloud with starch until it ran clear. The rhythm calmed her.

A knock at the door cut through the silence. She didn't jump.

Candace, her neighbor and occasional weed buddy, leaned against the doorframe holding a jar of fresh flower.

They cooked--spicy noodles, wilted greens--and smoked while lounging on the futon. Natalia thumbed through dating apps, bored. A blur of half-faces and shirtless torsos.

"What are you even looking for?" Candace asked, blowing smoke toward the ceiling.

Natalia grinned. "Not 'who.' Just a reaction. A little chaos."

Chapter 3 -- The Date

The bar was one of those places that tried too hard to seem effortless.

Dim lighting. Brass fixtures. Bartenders in rolled-up sleeves pouring bespoke cocktails. Jazz playing softly beneath the noise of soft laughter and ice in shakers.

Natalia was early. She liked being early--it gave her time to observe.

She sat at the bar in a low-backed stool, one leg crossed high over the other, heel dangling lazily from her foot. Her black halter top clung like water, showing just enough to remind--never enough to invite. A delicate chain rested between her collarbones. No makeup beyond a sheer gloss and the flush of sun still caught on her cheekbones.

She sipped something dark, bitter, and expensive.

He arrived seven minutes late.

The man was tall, lean, and as forgettable as his photos. Chiseled jaw. Tailored shirt. The kind of stubble that took effort to look casual. He slid in beside her like he was used to being wanted.

"You're even hotter in person," he said without offering a name.

Natalia offered a flat smile. "That line usually work?"

He laughed. "Guess we'll find out."

The conversation limped along. He spoke in Instagram quotes. Hustle culture. Real estate. Crypto. He touched her elbow twice. She moved away both times. He didn't notice.

She let him talk.

And talk.

And talk.

By the time he leaned in, breath warm and audacious, to murmur, "Want to sneak off to the bathroom? I bet you're wild in private," her interest was gone.

But her appetite wasn't.

She turned toward him, gaze steady.

"Sure," she said, and slid off the stool with liquid ease.

The bathroom was sleek, modern, dimly lit with a gold mirror and stone sink. She locked the door behind them with a click that sounded like a gun cocking.

He reached for her waist.

She caught his wrist mid-motion.

"No."

He blinked. "What--"

"I said no hands. Take out your tongue. That's all I need."

He laughed nervously, but she didn't smile.

"On your knees."

His smirk faded, confused. But she didn't move. She just stared. Waiting.

Slowly, awkwardly, he dropped.

She stepped forward, tugging her jeans just far enough down to reveal the clean, bare skin between her thighs.

Her voice dropped to a low, firm command.

"You want to be useful? Then worship me. Mouth only. Slow. Like you mean it."

He obeyed, hesitant at first, tongue flicking, uncertain.

She gripped the back of his head.

"No. Not like that. Suck. Then deeper. Tongue me until I forget your name."

He whimpered, his hands instinctively rising.

"Behind your back. You don't get to touch. You earn every sound I make."

Her hips began to roll, slowly, rhythmically. She used his face like a tool, guiding him with quiet gasps and sharp little instructions.

"That's it... yes... just like that... fuck, don't stop now."

She came on his face--slow and controlled, holding him in place with both hands.

Then she stepped back, fixed her jeans, and wiped a finger across her inner thigh.

"Thanks for the tongue," she said as he stared up, dazed. "That's all I needed."

She walked out without looking back.

Chapter 4 -- Under the Hood

The garage hummed with activity--metal clinks, compressor hiss, the faint scrape of rubber boots over concrete. Overhead, fans churned lazily, pushing air heavy with heat and the scent of engine oil.

Natalia had her hands inside the guts of a 2004 Civic. Sleeves rolled. Gloves snug. Hair pinned in a knot that was already loosening from the sweat trailing down her neck.

She didn't mind. She liked the grime. The clarity.

The car had a miss at idle. Most of the guys in class were swapping plugs without thought. Natalia didn't move so quickly. She listened.

There it was again. A subtle stutter. Just offbeat. Not misfiring, not fully smooth. She crouched, ear close to the engine bay, eyes narrowed. The way a chef listens to a pan. Or a woman learning how someone breathes before they moan.

She followed the sound, traced it back--throttle body, idle control valve, vacuum line.

Cracked.

Clean.

She stood, pulled off her gloves, and stepped back just as the professor appeared at her side.

"Thoughts?" he asked, voice low as always.

"Vacuum leak. Minor. Idle stutters just slightly. My guess is a compromised hose or a fault near the IAC."

He blinked. Looked at her fully now.

"How'd you hear that?"

She shrugged, brushing sweat from her temple. "You said combustion's choreography. I'm just listening to the rhythm."

Chapter 5 -- Office Hours (Revised)

His office was tucked away behind the far lift bay, past the rows of steel drawers and tool kits, tucked behind a heavy door with a loose hinge that always clicked twice when it shut. The room was dim, a single window throwing slanted light across an old metal desk, blueprints pinned along the walls like forgotten relics of obsession.

Natalia stood just inside the doorway, arms folded under the soft cling of a ribbed tee. Her skin still gleamed faintly from the oil she'd wiped away at the shop sink, and she smelled faintly of cedar and lard--rich, old-world, grounding.

He looked up from his notes.

"You're early again."

She gave him a small, unreadable smile. "I like the quiet before things start."

He gestured toward the chair across from him. She took it, moving with the ease of someone who knew how to stretch time--slow enough to let him watch her legs fold, her wrist brush the curve of her knee.

They started with diagrams.

Timing and compression ratios. How flame fronts move. The split-second harmony that keeps power from becoming chaos.

She asked sharp questions, the kind that made him pause.

He explained more than he usually would. Not because she needed it. Because she wanted it. Her curiosity wasn't academic. It was tactile. Sensual.

And it stirred something in him.

When she leaned forward, pointing to the pressure graph, her neckline dipped just slightly, and her breath hitched as her thigh brushed the underside of the desk. She didn't apologize. Didn't pull back.

"Engines are so... honest," she said, voice low. "You give them what they need, and they give you power. Feedback. Presence. People aren't like that."

He didn't answer right away.

Her gaze met his, steady.

"I cook the same way," she said. "It's about heat. Tension. Release. Same rhythm, different tools."

Something inside him shifted.

"You ever race?" she asked.

He looked away. "Not anymore. But I still drive."

"What kind of car?"

"Audi RS3. Modified. Torque-heavy, tight gear ratios. Feels like flying at the right speed."

She smiled slowly. "So you are that guy."

"What guy?"

"The quiet ones. The ones who keep everything buried until it explodes under the hood."

His mouth twitched, almost a smile.

He didn't answer. But the silence felt like a yes.

When office hours ended, he walked her to the door, hand braced lightly on the frame. She passed him slowly, shoulder brushing his chest, just enough to feel the warmth between them.

She didn't look back.

She didn't need to.

She already knew he'd be thinking about her all night.

Chapter 6 -- The Offer

The rain had just started when he knocked.

Natalia opened the door with bare feet and her hair tied loosely at the nape of her neck. The hallway behind him echoed with the tap of distant drops. His jacket was damp, collar turned up against the chill.

She stepped back without a word and let him in.

The apartment smelled like steam and ginger, citrus peels curling on the stove, soy, garlic, a whisper of something floral just beneath it all. It wasn't a scent designed to seduce. It was older than that. Deeper. The smell of being fed.

He paused in the doorway, body tense, fingers still flexing from the drive.

"Rough day?" she asked softly.

He nodded. Just once.

She didn't press.

She just handed him a clean towel for the rain and turned back to the stove, wordless, letting the warmth of the space do what her voice didn't need to.

Dinner was simple.

A whole fish cleaned with her own hands, skin scored and laid over scallions and ginger. Steamed inside a bamboo basket until the flesh turned silky and separated at the bone. Rice that clung together just enough. Chinese greens wilted in garlic and sesame oil. A splash of dark soy. A final pour of sizzling chili oil crackling over top like applause.

She watched him eat.

He didn't speak. Didn't fill the silence with compliments or performative gratitude. He just ate--slowly, fully, like it mattered. Like his body needed exactly what she was giving him.

When the last of the rice was gone, he leaned back, eyes closed for just a moment.

Then he opened them.

"You didn't have to do this," he said, voice rough.

She stepped behind him, resting her hands on the back of his chair.

"I wanted to."

She moved with quiet certainty, sliding his jacket from his shoulders, then tugging his shirt up and over his head.

"Relax."

He hesitated.

Then obeyed.

Her hands were warm, slick with oil that smelled of pepper, clove, and something faintly sweet. She pressed into the muscles at the base of his neck, slow and firm, working through the tension knot by knot. He exhaled, jaw unclenching for the first time all day.

"You carry everything here," she murmured. "Like you're afraid to drop anything."

His head bowed slightly.

Her palms moved lower, tracing the edges of his shoulder blades, the deep lines of his back, the ridges of exertion left behind by long drives and longer self-restraint.

"I don't need anything from you tonight," she said. "Just let me give this to you."

And he did.

Chapter 7 -- The Edge

The plates were cleared.

The candle on the table had burned low, flickering against the rim of his empty bowl. The scent of ginger and numbing pepper still hung in the room, laced into the steam that clung faintly to the windows.

He sat quietly, head bowed slightly, palms resting open on his thighs. Natalia moved in silence, barefoot on warm floors, wrapping leftover rice in cloth, washing her hands with slow, deliberate movements.

Neither of them had spoken in several minutes.

She didn't feel the need to.

The quiet wasn't awkward--it was full. Heavy. Thick with things that didn't need to be said out loud.

She poured him a cup of warm tea and placed it in front of him. Their fingers brushed. He didn't move.

"You okay?" she asked, voice low.

He looked up at her. His face, usually so unreadable, was softer now. Eyes dark but clear.

"I haven't been this still in a long time," he said. "Didn't realize how much noise I was carrying until you made it go quiet."

Natalia leaned against the counter, arms crossed over the loose linen tied at her waist.

"You think quiet's weakness?"

"I used to."

She didn't respond.

She just watched him.

When he finally stood, he moved slower. Like his body was uncertain what to do without its usual tension. He walked toward her--not close enough to touch, but close enough for warmth.

"I shouldn't stay," he said.

She raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Because if I do, I might forget why I've been trying so hard not to want this."

Her voice dropped to a murmur. "You already forgot."

A long silence stretched between them. Their breath mingled now. His hand lifted, half an instinct--like he might reach for her cheek, her neck, anything.

But it stopped.

He closed his eyes. Just for a moment.

Then stepped back.

"I'll see you in class."

Chapter 8 -- The Drive

The RS3 growled up to the curb like a restrained animal, matte gray with black trim that swallowed the afternoon light. It idled with quiet menace--low, rhythmic, self-assured. Natalia stepped toward it without hesitation, the heels of her boots clicking against the concrete.

The passenger window lowered with a soft whir.

"You said you wanted to feel it," he said simply.

She opened the door and slid inside.

The cabin smelled like leather and ozone--like speed waiting to be unleashed. The seats were stitched in red, the wheel still warm from his grip. She settled in, one knee bent, fingers tracing the edge of the door panel like she was memorizing it.

He didn't say anything else.

Just shifted into gear and pulled away from the curb.

The city peeled away quickly--pavement thinning, buildings giving way to winding mountain roads that curled like ribbons into the hills. The engine opened up, and the cabin filled with the rising thrum of controlled power. The sound vibrated through the soles of her feet, her sternum, the base of her throat.

He drove with precision. Every motion was deliberate--clean lines, firm grip, measured throttle. His eyes stayed on the road. His body moved like it had trained for this. Like he didn't think anymore--he just knew.

Natalia didn't speak. She let the silence stretch. Let herself be carried by the car, the curves, the sudden rush of inertia around each bend.

"You drive like you're holding something back," she said softly.

He didn't look at her. Just exhaled.

"I am."

"What?"

He didn't answer.

So she leaned in.

Not enough to touch--but enough for her breath to fog his glasses.

"Tell me."

His grip on the wheel tightened. His jaw flexed.

"You already know," he said.

Chapter 9 -- Close Quarters

The garage was humid.

Rain had swept through the night before, and the building hadn't cooled. Fluorescents buzzed overhead, casting pale light over rows of cars, open hoods, and students hunched over diagnostics. Somewhere near the back, a fan ticked in lazy circles, moving air without conviction.

Natalia was already at her bay, sleeves rolled to the elbow, her hands disappearing into the open heart of a stripped-down RX-8. Her hair was twisted up haphazardly, pieces falling loose around her jaw. Sweat clung to the back of her neck and caught the light.

She didn't mind.

There was something meditative in the rhythm of her work.

And then he was beside her.

The professor didn't say anything at first. He just watched.

"Torque spec?" he asked finally.

"Eighty-nine foot-pounds," she replied without looking up.

"You always run this hot?" she asked.

He raised a brow. "Engines or people?"

She smirked. "Either."

He stepped in closer. Their arms brushed.

Neither of them moved.

Chapter 10 -- The Night Drive

Rain again. Soft this time.

He was already waiting when she stepped outside.

The RS3 idled at the curb, headlights cutting through the mist. The streetlights blurred into halos. She didn't rush.

He unlocked the door.

She slid in without a word.

The cabin was dark and close. The scent of warmed leather, engine heat, and something uniquely him wrapped around her. His hands were on the wheel. Still. Ready.

He pulled away from the curb and said nothing.

She didn't fill the silence.

The only sound was the soft swish of the wipers, the hum of tires rolling over wet asphalt, the quiet growl of the engine restrained beneath his foot.

They drove without destination.

"Don't touch me," she whispered. "Just feel me."

And then she was gone. The door clicked shut behind her. The rain softened.

He stayed parked there a long, long time.

Chapter 11 -- The Heat Beneath

The garage felt different.

Same lifts. Same tool carts. Same overhead lights buzzing faintly in the metal rafters. But the air was thicker. Dense with heat and something less measurable. Like the whole room had held its breath and forgotten how to let it go.

Natalia arrived just as he was lowering the hood on the demo car.

She didn't say good morning. She didn't need to.

She moved like she always did--fluid, unrushed--but something in her gaze was sharper now. Like she knew how the story ended, and was savoring the in-between.

He didn't speak either. Just handed her the torque wrench she needed.

Their fingers touched.

A flicker. A current. Gone too fast. Felt too deep.

She took the wrench without breaking eye contact.

The students around them laughed, called out measurements, joked about stripped threads and oil spills. The usual noise.

But between them?

It was quiet.

Heavy.

He watched her work from a step back. Watched the way her shoulders moved when she leaned over the engine bay. The way her spine curved, the soft shine of sweat blooming at the base of her neck. Her fingers moved confidently, sure-footed on steel. There was no question in her. No apology.

She called out a misaligned sensor.

He double-checked it.

She was right.

"Good catch," he said softly.

She didn't look up. "You always double-check me?"

"Only when I want to be sure I'm not distracted."

Her eyes lifted at that.

She smiled--barely. "You're distracted?"

He didn't answer.

But his silence was too loud to ignore.

Chapter 12 -- Cracks in the Frame (His POV)

He hadn't slept.

Not really.

He'd laid in bed with the lights off and his body still, listening to the faint echo of her voice as if she were still in the car beside him.

"Don't touch me. Just feel me."

He could still smell her. The rain. Her skin. That faint trace of something spiced and sacred beneath her sweat.

It wasn't just attraction anymore. It wasn't even about control.

It was presence.

She was everywhere now.

Not in an obsessive way. Not in the way a crush creeps in and steals your focus.

No--this was deeper.

She had occupied the spaces he had kept sealed off for years. Moved into the quiet corridors of his restraint. Lit match after match and left them burning in corners he no longer wanted to police.

In the classroom, he watched her without watching her.

Every move she made had intention. Every question she asked was loaded--not with flirtation, but with knowing. She didn't seduce him.

She saw him.

And that was worse.

That was dangerous.

He sat at his desk late into the night, diagrams untouched, lecture notes forgotten. The light from the corner lamp carved shadows across the blueprints tacked to the wall.

She had touched him once.

Just once.

And he'd never felt more exposed.

He wasn't afraid she'd hurt him.

He was afraid he'd want more.

And once he let himself have it...

He knew he wouldn't be able to stop.

Chapter 13 -- Dusk in the Garage

The rest of the class had cleared out thirty minutes ago.

One by one, the buzz of conversation and laughter faded, tool drawers slammed shut, and doors creaked open to the soft glow of sunset just outside the bay doors. By the time Natalia looked up from her work, the sky had dimmed to gold fading into ash.

And he was still there.

The garage had transformed in the quiet--less mechanical now, more elemental. Steel tools glinted under low light. Shadows bled from every corner. The air held the warmth of recently run engines and the quiet pulse of something unspoken.

Natalia stood at the far end of the space, wiping her hands on a towel. She didn't rush. She moved like the day had never tired her, like her body knew its rhythm better than the clock did.

He leaned against the edge of a workbench, hands at his sides. Still. Silent. But his gaze had weight.

She approached slowly, every step echoing faintly off concrete.

"You always stay this late?" she asked.

He looked up. "Only when there's something worth staying for."

She stopped a few feet from him. Not too close. But close enough for the space between them to matter.

"You've been holding back," she said.

"I've had to."

"Have you? Or have you just forgotten what it feels like to let someone see you want something?"

She stepped closer. Slowly. Deliberately. Until the distance between them was no more than a breath.

Still, she didn't touch him.

She reached up--one fingertip, slow, reverent--and traced a single smear of grease from his jawline.

The gesture was nothing.

But it felt like a kiss.

"If you ever want to lose control," she said, "I'm right here."

Then she turned and walked away--each step echoing softly, her hips swaying just enough to leave an aftertaste.

He didn't follow.

But he stayed.

Chapter 14 -- The Second Meal

The first time she fed him, it was care.

This time, it was something else entirely.

He'd taken the RS3 to the track that morning, and she'd shown up without warning--leaning against the fence line, lips parted slightly as he threaded curves like they belonged to him.

She cooked for him that night like it was ritual.

Braised short ribs in spiced broth. Daikon and scallions. Hand-cut noodles bathed in chili oil and black vinegar. Wilted greens glistening beside steamed rice.

He ate in silence. Devoured it. Let her feed the hunger in his muscles, his nerves, his breath.

And when she massaged him again, this time he didn't hesitate.

He let her undress him from the shoulders down. Let her hands press into his spine and loosen every knot. Let her voice sink into his ear like silk-wrapped thread pulling through old fabric.

"You let everyone else lean on you," she whispered. "But who holds you?"

And he didn't answer.

He just breathed.

And let go.

Chapter 15 -- Morning (His POV)

He woke to the scent of ginger and heat.

The apartment was quiet. Still warm. His body had sunk into the couch sometime after the massage. His shirt lay somewhere on the floor.

She stood at the stove in a linen robe, barefoot, hair half-twisted at the nape of her neck.

He watched her.

Not with lust.

With reverence.

Because she hadn't taken him apart.

She had held him.

And he knew--

She hadn't slipped into his life.

She had arrived.