The smell of grease was strong and the low music vibrated on the speakers. You were sitting on the hood of the car that Harris was moving, wearing one of his shirts (too big for you) and shaking your feet.

“Hand me the wrench,” he asked without even looking, extending his hand.

You delivered... the wrong key.

“That’s the key to the mouth, genius,” he grumbled, raising his eyes at you with that crooked smile.

“You should specify,” you replied, throwing the right tool lightly for him.

Harris caught the air with a low laugh. “You just want to annoy me.”

“Maybe.”

“It’s working.”

And he went back to work with a slight smile on the corner of his lips, knowing that you were not going anywhere.