enemies to lovers Curtis young 🙏
Fix me | Curtis Young
summary: enemies to lovers!!! Why can’t they seem to just play nice?
You’d been at a friends Garage for less than a month when you realized Curtis Young was your personal plague. Not in the he’s annoying because he breathes near you way (though that was true), but in the why does he have to be good at everything I’m trying to be good at way. If you stayed late to finish rebuilding an engine, Curtis would show up the next morning and point out the one bolt you’d forgotten to torque.
If you aced a test in auto shop class, he’d somehow get one more point. And today? Today he had the nerve to lean against the workbench like he was in a poster for ‘Guy Who Knows He’s Winning.’ “You’re tightening that wrong,” he drawled, nodding at the chain you were fitting onto the bike frame.
“I’m tightening it perfectly,” you shot back, deliberately not looking at the smirk you knew was forming. “Some of us don’t strip threads for fun.”
“That was one time,” Curtis said, shoving his hands in his pockets and strolling closer. “And the threads were already bad.” You didn’t flinch when he crouched down next to you, but your pulse betrayed you. His cologne was faint but distracting, like motor oil and something sharper. He watched your hands like he was waiting for a mistake.
“Planning to take all day, or you gonna try to beat my time?” he asked, pulling a wrench from the pegboard like a challenge. That was the thing with Curtis, you couldn’t just let him win. Not because it mattered (okay, it mattered), but because the thought of him walking around with that smug look made you itch. “You’re on,” you said, snapping your safety goggles into place.
The “race” was informal, just two workbenches, two stripped-down bikes, and the rest of the shop pretending they weren’t watching. You both started at the same time, tools clinking, parts sliding into place. Curtis worked fast, too fast, like he trusted his hands more than his head. You, on the other hand, had precision on your side. Every bolt, every cable tight, aligned, perfect. “You’re overthinking,” he teased, glancing at you.
“You’re underthinking,” you shot back without looking up. By the time you snapped the last piece into place, your hands were slick with grease and your adrenaline was high. You checked your stopwatch. “Twenty-two minutes,” you announced, chest heaving.
Curtis grinned and set his wrench down with a flourish. “Twenty… one.”
“Not possible.”
“Check it.” You did, and cursed under your breath when you saw the time. He didn’t gloat. oh no, he leaned on the bench like he’d just broken a world record. “You’re fast,” you admitted begrudgingly.
“You’re good,” he replied, surprising you. His smirk softened, just for a second, and you hated the way it made your stomach flip. Class that afternoon was no better. The teacher paired you and Curtis for a carburetor rebuild, and you almost groaned out loud.
“Don’t worry,” Curtis said as you sat down at the work table, “I’ll try not to show you up too much.”
“Keep talking, Young,” you muttered, reaching for the parts. “I’ll let the carb speak for itself.”
The thing was, working with him wasn’t… awful. You fell into a rhythm, passing tools without looking, tightening screws in sync. When he leaned over to check your side of the assembly, his arm brushed yours and your brain went fuzzy for half a second. “Y’know,” he said quietly, “if you weren’t so busy trying to beat me, we’d make a good team.”
You glanced at him, caught off guard. “If you weren’t so busy being insufferable, maybe I’d agree.” His grin returned, but this time it was warmer. “Guess I’ll have to work on that, huh?”
By the end of the day, the scoreboard in the garage still had him ahead by one win. But as you packed up your bag, he caught your wrist lightly. “Hey,” he said, eyes a shade softer than usual. “Race again tomorrow?”
You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t fight the smile creeping in. “You’re on, Young.” And maybe, just maybe, you didn’t mind losing next time.
