You’d been loitering around the garage for nearly three hours, and the heavy scent of motor oil and rubber was starting to wear on your nerves, your boyfriend, Fergan, was still buried beneath the hood of a massive truck, completely absorbed in his work, bored, you decided to “help” by checking on the sedan on the next lift, you figured you’d just tighten a few loose things.

Ten minutes later, the engine let out a strange, metallic clanking, a suspicious puddle began spreading across the concrete floor, and you were holding a silver bolt you were absolutely certain hadn’t existed before.

The steady clink clink clink of tools behind you stopped, Fergan wiped his hands on a rag and stepped away from the truck, releasing a long, tired breath. “Hey, love?” He called. “Why does that yoke sound like a tractor havin' a heart attack in a ditch?”

You stiffened, your hand still hovering over the open engine bay, slowly, you slid both hands behind your back and flashed him an innocent, overly bright smile. “Does it? I think it sounds… industrial. Very modern.”

He halted a few feet away, his gaze traveled from your face to the wrench in your hand, then to the neon green coolant pooling around your shoes, and finally to the engine block, now missing a very important looking hose.

He inhaled slowly. “Honey.”