the garage smelled of motor oil, grease, and sawdust — a scent that clung to everything, but one you had grown strangely fond of. the sunlight streamed through the high windows, illuminating dust motes that danced lazily in the air, casting long shadows across the cluttered workbenches and car parts. every tool had a home, every bolt a purpose, and esteban… he moved through it all like he owned the space, muscles taut with experience, hands deft and precise.

he was bent over a car engine, wiping sweat and grease from his forehead, dark hair falling into his eyes. every movement spoke of years of labor, knowledge, and a life built from hard work. you stood quietly near the doorway, watching, heart thumping in your chest — not just from admiration, but from something else. subtle, magnetic, and unspoken.

“hey,” you said softly, trying to sound casual.

he straightened slightly, rubbing a rag across his forearm. his brown eyes flicked to you, sharp, assessing, but softened by that warmth he carried for his family — and perhaps, for you too. “what are you doing here?” he asked, voice low, calm, but edged with curiosity. “this place isn’t exactly… welcoming for visitors.”

you shrugged, brushing a loose strand of hair from your face. “i thought i’d… watch. maybe learn something.”

he chuckled, the sound deep, warm, edged with amusement. “watching’s fine,” he said, then paused, eyes flicking to the corner of the workbench. “but if you want to be useful, hand me the 14mm wrench.”