Chapter Text
The sound of air guns echoing off the concrete walls of the Veloce Racing garage was loud enough to shake the fillings out of a man’s teeth, but Fifa didn’t care. He was practically vibrating at his own frequency.
He unbuttoned the top section of his racing suit, letting the heavy, fire-retardant sleeves dangle around his waist as he marched over to the main engineering desk. His slender, lithe 5'9" frame moved with an aggressive grace that demanded attention, his jet-black curtain hair bouncing with every furious step.
"I need someone to explain to me why the rear axle feels like it’s floating on a bed of warm butter," Fifa snapped, slamming his telemetry booklet down on the desk. He glared at the head engineer, his large, dark almond-shaped eyes flashing. "I’m losing nearly two-tenths on the exit of Turn 4. If the rear isn’t locked down by tomorrow’s free practice, I’m going to personally throw this entire chassis into the Chao Phraya river."
The engineers looked down, shuffling papers, terrified of the young prodigy’s notoriously sharp tongue. Fifa’s resting face was a masterpiece of aristocratic coldness—a sharp V-shaped jawline, a high, slender nose bridge, and a pouty lower lip that looked more suited for a high-fashion runway than a dirty pit lane.
From underneath the car jacked up on the hoist adjacent to the desk, a low, smooth voice cut through the ambient noise.
"The rear isn't floating, Fifa. You’re over-driving the car."
Fifa stiffened. He spun around on his heel, his dark eyebrows knitting together as Copper slid out from beneath the undercarriage.
Copper stood up, wiping grease off his hands with a dark microfiber rag. At 5'10", he had a naturally light, slender build, but his arms—exposed by a black muscle tee—were visibly corded with functional, lean muscle. His Korean leaf-cut hair, blending into a subtle modern wolf cut at the back, was slightly damp with sweat. He looked up, his intense, almond eyes locking onto Fifa with a calm, unbothered gaze that drove the younger boy entirely insane.
"Excuse me?" Fifa said, his voice dropping an octave, his tone dripping with sass. "Are you telling me how to handle my own vehicle, mechanic? I’ve been racing since I was twelve."
"And I’ve been rebuilding engines since I was ten," Copper replied evenly, stepping closer. The air between them instantly grew thick, charged with the familiar friction that had been building over the two months since Copper had joined the team. "Look at the data, Fifa. You’re tracking an extra two degrees of steering angle on the entry to Turn 4 because you’re trying to force a late apex. The front tires are gripping, but the weight transfer is overloading the rear left. It’s not a mechanical failure. It’s driver impatience."
Fifa’s jaw clenched, his naturally pinkish lips thinning into a tight line. He hated that Copper was right. He hated even more how calm Copper was while saying it. He stepped into Copper’s personal space, his high nose bridge almost touching Copper’s chin.
"If I want a lecture on physics, I’ll call my university professor," Fifa hissed, his sharp eyes scanning Copper’s structured jawline, noting the faint scent of premium engine oil and expensive sandalwood cologne that always hung around the older man. "Fix the suspension dampening. Give me more rebound. Now."
Copper didn't blink. His dark, thick eyebrows arched slightly, a hint of a banter-filled smirk touching his full, pouty lips. "I’ll adjust it by one click. Any more than that, and you’ll spin out on the warm-up lap. And I don’t feel like spending my evening replacing carbon fiber panels because you wanted to prove a point."
"You—"
"Hey! Are you two bickering like an old married couple again?"
The booming voice of Max broke the tension. Max walked into the pit lane wearing a crisp white Veloce Racing team polo that stretched over his heavily muscular tall frame. As Fifa's older brother and the primary sponsor coordinator, Max looked like he belonged in a corporate boardroom, a stark contrast to Fifa’s wild, track-side energy.
Max walked straight up to Fifa, ignoring the younger boy's lethal glare, and wrapped a heavy arm around his neck, pulling him into a rough headlock. "Stop terrorizing my lead mechanic, you little brat. Copper is the only guy in Bangkok who can actually get this engine to push six hundred horsepower without blowing the turbo."
"Max! Let go of me! My hair!" Fifa yelled, his sharp tongue faltering as he thrashed around in his brother’s grip.
Max laughed, using his free hand to aggressively mess up Fifa’s perfectly parted curtain haircut. "You look like a wet poodle anyway. Come on, look alive. Dad called from the office. He wants a status report on the qualifying tiers."
Fifa finally broke free, huffing loudly as he tried to smooth his jet-black hair back down the middle. He glared at Max, his bottom lip extending into a full, dramatic pout that made him look incredibly youthful. But as Max laughed again, reaching out to pinch Fifa’s cheek, Fifa’s defenses completely crumbled.
A massive, face-lighting smile broke through Fifa’s sharp facade. His eyes crinkled into beautiful, dark crescent moons, his upper lip lifted to reveal a bright, endearing gummy grin, and two deep, deep dimples popped into his cheeks. The entire aggressive, razor-sharp aura of the racer vanished in a millisecond, replaced by a blinding warmth that filled the dark, industrial garage.
Copper, who had turned back to his toolbox, froze.
He watched the transformation through the reflection of the shiny chrome tool cabinet. Over the past two months, Copper had practiced the art of observation. He knew that Fifa was a brat on the track—loud, proud, and fiercely competitive. But that smile... that gummy, dimpled smile was dangerous. It made something tight in Copper's chest loosen, a possessive, quiet instinct scratching at the back of his mind.
"I’m going to the lounge," Fifa muttered, his cheeks still flushed from the smile as he caught Copper watching him in the reflection. He shot Copper one last sassy look before turning on his heel and sauntering away, his lithe frame moving with a sudden, deliberate sway.
Max watched his brother leave, then turned to Copper, leaning his heavy frame against the tool chest. "He's an absolute nightmare when the track temperatures are high. Thanks for handling him, man."
"It's fine," Copper said quietly, his voice returning to its usual low, mysterious rumble as he picked up a socket wrench. "He's passionate. Good drivers usually are."
Max chuckled, pulling out his phone. "Speaking of passion, my mom is breathing down my neck again. She wants to know why you haven't joined us for dinner lately. She still wants to introduce you to that interior designer girl. You’ve been single for two years now, Copper. Even a monk gets a cheat day."
Copper didn't look up from his work. "I'm busy with the car, Max. Your family pays me to win championships, not to go on blind dates."
"Yeah, yeah. Always the mysterious loner," Max joked, clapping his best friend on the back. "Don't forget we're hitting that bar in Thonglor after the cup qualifications next week. You're not allowed to skip out early this time."
"We'll see," Copper murmured, his eyes tracking a faint smudge of pink lip gloss on the edge of the telemetry booklet Fifa had left behind.