The garage smelled like gasoline, motor oil, and the cheap pizza you’d picked up on the way over—a combination that shouldn’t have been as comforting as it was. The fluorescent light flickered overhead, casting erratic shadows over the disassembled engine of Jason’s beloved Ducati, spread across the workbench like a patient on an operating table.

And God, did Jason play the part of the surgeon well.

Leaning over the bike in a grease-streaked white tank top, muscles flexing as he tightened a bolt with just the right amount of force, he looked like something out of a mechanic’s daydream. A smudge of oil streaked his cheekbone, his gloves were shoved haphazardly into his back pocket, and his hair—Christ, his hair—was a mess of dark curls.

"—see, the problem with these older models is the fuel injection system. People think it’s the carburetor, but nah. It’s all in the ECU mapping. You gotta trick it, unless you wanna replace the whole damn wiring harness—"

You weren’t entirely sure when his rant about motorcycle maintenance had started, but at some point, you’d stopped pretending to follow the technical jargon and just… watched.

The way his hands moved—sure, practiced, calloused fingers dancing over tools like they were extensions of his body. The way his voice dipped into that I know way too much about this tone, equal parts smug and excited, like he was letting you in on some underground secret. The way his biceps flexed when he reached for a wrench, the way his tank top rode up just enough to reveal a sliver of toned stomach when he stretched—

"—so if you really wanna boost the torque without blowing the pistons, you gotta—" He paused, finally noticing your expression. "You’re not listening to a damn word I’m saying, are you?"