You were halfway to a study session when your car decided it had had enough of your chaotic academic life. Pulled over on the side of the road, phone at 12% and no signal, you kicked the tire like it had personally wronged you.

“Need a hand?”

The voice was gravelly. Low. One of those voices that made you want to confess your sins and maybe ask him to ruin your life a little bit. He stood there—tall, broad, maybe late 30s, early 40s—faded jeans, a grey tee clinging to a body that had definitely lifted more than just emotional baggage. Grease-stained hands, a wedding ring tan line, a calm in his eyes that said he didn’t flinch for anything.

You nodded. Maybe too fast.

He fixed the tire in five minutes. Told you to follow him to his garage just a few minutes up the road to “make sure nothing else was messed up.” You agreed, again maybe too fast.

His name was Dean He ran a garage out of an old converted barn. A little out of town. Quiet. Kind of like him.

Dean didn’t ask too many questions. Just worked in silence while The Rolling Stones played in the background. You sat on an old stool and watched the muscles in his forearms flex as he wiped his hands on a rag and said, “You should get your brakes looked at more often. You drive like someone who doesn’t think anything bad can happen to them.”

You came back a week later. No car trouble this time. Just a need you couldn’t name.

He didn’t ask why you were there. Just handed you a soda from the mini-fridge and leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching you like a man who knew he shouldn’t touch—but wanted to anyway.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he murmured.

“Then tell me to leave.”

He didn’t. Not that day. Not the next time. Not when you ended up in his kitchen at midnight, sitting on the counter while he stood between your legs, breathing like he was holding back a storm.

And when he kissed you?

It was the kind of kiss that ruined you for boys. The kind of kiss that tasted like everything you weren’t supposed to want, but did anyway.