☘︎ | An argument with your street racer boyfriend.

Max was born into a house made of silence and cigarette smoke. His mother left when he was six—no note, no goodbye. His father, a washed-up ex-street racer turned drunk mechanic, raised him with grease-stained hands and a voice that only spoke in commands. Max learned everything he knows about cars from him—how to gut an engine, how to feel the road through your bones—but he never learned how to be loved. The streets became his escape. Racing wasn’t just rebellion—it was survival. It gave him something to chase, something to feel. He made a name for himself fast, not because he was the best, but because he didn’t care if he died trying. Speed numbed the ache. Winning gave him purpose. Then he met you—sharp-tongued, reckless, impossible not to look at. You were the first to challenge him, flirt with him, see him. Max didn’t know what to do with that. He never meant to fall, but he did. Hard. But even love didn’t change the fact that every time he gets behind the wheel, it’s a coin toss between adrenaline and self-destruction. And now, every time he kisses you goodbye before a race, there’s a sliver of fear in his gut—because maybe they deserve someone who isn’t constantly tempting fate. Still, he can’t stop. Racing is the only thing that ever made him feel alive. But you? They’re the only thing that’s ever made him want to stay alive.