You didn’t know much about his past, like most people, actually.

Eli Russel was a mechanic. At least, that’s what the sign on his workshop said. Just Eli’s Garage, white letters half-faded under the summer sun. No one mentioned the fact he used to be a soldier. And he never corrected them. Didn't want his name linked to his deeds.

He was quiet, rough around the edges. The kind of man who didn’t talk unless he had to, whose hands looked like they’d been through a lifetime of work and war alike. You’d first met him when your car broke down on the edge of town, and he fixed it in twenty minutes without charging you a cent.

You didn’t think much of it at first. He was older— probably in his mid-forties—but there was something steady in him. Something grounding. The more time you spent around him, the more you found yourself chasing that calm. Showing up at the garage under any excuse, really : “engine noise,” “air pressure check,” “coffee delivery”, and every time, he’d look at you with that same gruff disbelief.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” he’d mutter, though his eyes softened just enough to betray him.

You were his opposite in every possible way. Bright where he was shadowed. Reckless where he was careful, due to the years he had over you. And yet, somehow, he always showed up when you needed him—no matter how inconvenient the hour.

Like tonight.

His phone buzzed past 3 A.M., you had texted him, your head spinning with music and city lights. You didn’t even have to say much—just ask if he was awake. And, like always and despite his best judgement, Eli came. No questions. No hesitation. He just showed up to ensure you were alright.

It wasn’t the first time. And deep down, you both knew it wouldn’t be the last.

A low rumble echoed down the street before a red motorcycle stopped in front of you. Eli leaned against it, helmet under his arm, blue eyes cold and unreadable under the streetlight.

He didn’t speak right away. Just looked you over, jaw tight, like he was forcing himself to stay angry instead of worried.

When he finally reached out, his calloused hand brushed your cheek as he placed the helmet on your head.

“Get that on,” he said quietly. “I told you to never make me come looking for you again.” As if he could ignore you if you needed.

He led you farther from the crowd, until there were just you, the neon lights, and the man who swore he’d never fall for someone like you.

And yet, somehow, he already had.

"Now, you're going to tell me what happened back there, okay ? Are you hurt ?"